


Invictus

by SunAndMoon (LadyMorgaine)



Series: Seventeen AUs [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17931299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMorgaine/pseuds/SunAndMoon
Summary: His father's death forced Choi Seungcheol to grow up far too quickly, leaving him vulnerable to power plays he had not been aware of before. Left to sink or swim in a scene that really doesn't care about anything, he'll have to fight to rise to the top of not only the underground Itaewon scene, but the glittering streets beyond.





	1. Six Months Ago

_Six months ago:_

 

Seungcheol stood in the doorway of the club’s side entrance and sucked back on the straw of the custard box with a shudder, eyes wet with something more than rain. His father’s estate had finally cleared that morning, out of the seemingly never-ending hellhole of contestation and estate claims. Six months of hard times and a winter to go with them, cold and biting. Times had been so hard that between himself and Jihoon-ah, they had been forced to work four jobs just to keep the small family afloat and the lawyer fees paid. Poor Seokmin-ah who had dropped out from his company to help them, had taken on another as well, something that still broke his heart.

 

In that time, the only thing they had agreed on was that the three of them would die individually and together before they let Chan-ah drop out as well. He had been whittled down to the bone, but it had made him stronger, and now as he stared at the side alley it made him think of the intricate web of connections, territory and protection that places like these lived on. They were close to the famous Homo Hill in Itaewon, and the club had been prosperous enough and lucky enough to be in its own building, space being a premium in Seoul.

 

It also made him bitter to know that somewhere out there, his father’s killers still slept easily at night, or whoever had killed Uncle and Auntie Lee. It made him wonder exactly how many other stories like theirs lived quietly in the streets around them without anyone to stand for them, anyone to protect them as the four brothers had protected themselves.

 

A rustle sounded behind him. He didn’t need to see the person to know that it was Lee Jihoon, the eldest of the three Lee brothers. His footsteps were infinitely familiar by now. Still, he looked sideways and down as the slim, shorter man moved to stand next to him. He too had been touched by the past six months – his cheeks were very thin, and the bones in his wrists and shoulders showed, but he had the same take-no-prisoners kind of consciousness that he had seen in his own mirror.

 

“You did it,” Jihoon said quietly.

 

“We did it,” Seungcheol rebutted.

 

The smile Jihoon spared him was rather thin, but at least there.

 

Seungcheol dug in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out the thin billfold, digging around in it. “Here,” he said as he pulled out a card and handed it to Jihoon. “Back pay for the six months. It’s not much, but it’ll ease things up a little. As soon as I have the paperwork under control I’ll be able to tell you more. At least we can get new clothes for Channie. I…”

 

He broke off as a tall man in a good suit stepped into the alley, stopping several paces away under the overhang.

 

The man was a bit taller but definitely around his age, perhaps even a little younger. He was dressed in a good suit, one that emphasized wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was too curly for it to have been anything but a perm, but the wild froth of black suited the glasses he was wearing. Handsome, very handsome, but there was something to his bearing that suggested great reserve and a coolness of spirit.

 

“Choi Seungcheol-ssi?” the man asked as he bowed a little, looking between the two of them.

 

For a moment Seungcheol shivered, went right back to the last six months of heartbreak and hard work. Was this another debt collector, another lawyer that wanted something?

 

“Yes?” he said wearily, stepping forward as, at his side, Jihoon’s back straightened as well.

 

The man bowed again, but when he straightened a little of the hard shellac of control seemed gone. “My name is Jeon Wonwoo,” he said. “May I…”

 

Jihoon’s hand came to rest on the lintel. “Jeon Wonwoo?” he asked tightly. “Of the Jeons that lead the _Choseungdal_ jopok?”

 

“Yes,” Jeon Wonwoo said. “And then also no.”

 

Seungcheol measured him. “You’d better come in,” he finally said.

 

The club was dark with most of the signs and mood lighting switched off. Behind the bar Lee Seokmin, the second of the Lee brothers, was going through the big fridges and ice equipment one by one, checking what still worked after six months of being shut down. He spared them a single glance as the three wandered to one of the stripped-down booths but didn’t speak.

 

Seungcheol didn’t say anything, and would never have broken his confidence, but the Lee brother he worried about the most was quiet Seokmin, who had lost a measure of his sunshine personality when he had to drop out and start working at a corner store to help them. Even with that, he had recently made his way-too-late CSATs well enough that university was an option if they ever got entirely out of the shithole.

 

Grimacing, he waited until Jeon Wonwoo sat down, sinking down in a chair opposite him. Jihoon chose to sit at his right, and he didn’t think it was coincidence that he left enough space to move in, or that his entire expression was hostile.

 

“My name,” Jeon Wonwoo said, “is indeed connected to those Jeons. However, to make sure that we labour under no impression that I hold any power there, I am a late-life bastard of the previous leader. The current leader, my half-brother, is none too fond of me. I am not here on their behalf.”

 

Jihoon relaxed a little at his side, but there was still judgement in his straight stare. “You must realise that in my grandfather’s time, there was no love lost between the _Choseungdal_ and the _Hyeseong-Gae._ ”

 

The grimace that crossed Jeon Wonwoo’s face indicated that he knew as much. “I have no love left for the _Choseungdal_ ,” he said flatly. “I grew up dependent on the mercy of the main house.”

 

Seungcheol winced. Even he, never connected to a _jopok_ , knew illegal children did not fare well, no matter which side of the blanket they dropped on.

 

It soothed Jihoon a bit. “No mercy that,” he muttered, rubbing at his face to try and wipe some of the tiredness away.

 

Wonwoo’s jaw worked as he bit down on his back teeth. “No,” he agreed flatly. “Especially not if said son happens to prefer the company of men to that of women.”

 

Seungcheol winced again. A homosexual would _not_ have fared well in the kind of super-traditional atmosphere most jopoks cultivated at the top, especially not a _known_ one. “You have my condolences. I am still at a loss for why you’re here.”

 

Wonwoo seemed to gather himself, lose that emotional reaction, until he was smooth and calm and cold again. He looked around the bar before he answered. “I have information that might be of help to you if you are planning on readying the club for operation again. If you are planning on offering the old employees their jobs back. There was a bartender here by the name of Ong Donghyun-ssi, correctly?”

 

Seungcheol frowned. “Yes, why?”

 

“In my attempts to guarantee my continued vitality, I had been investigating several rumours about the jopok, looking for anything that might… might be enough to buy me some breathing space.” Jeon Wonwoo took a deep breath. “I came across embezzlement on the books, not traced down yet, that lead to a kkangpae in the area. I employed some illegal means to procure their files and…”

 

“You mean you hacked them?” Seungcheol asked. “I can’t think that there was another way, everything is electronic these days.”

 

Jeon Wonwoo gave him a thin smile as he reached into his pocket to pull out a wad of tightly-folded papers. “Indeed so. I had a… friend look things over. He’s good with creative forensic accounting. Six months ago, one of their shell companies gave a very favourable home sale deal to one Ong Donghyun.” He unfolded the papers, smoothed them down.

 

Seungcheol felt struck dumb. “What?” he asked through rigid lips. “For what?”

 

Jeon Wonwoo looked from the papers to him. “For information on the whereabouts of Choi Seungjae last autumn.”

 

A nova of betrayal burst in Seungcheol’s brain. He felt Jihoon’s hand on his shoulder, his worried voice asking something, but he couldn’t think past the bitter taste in his mouth. “What?” he got out.

 

Jeon Wonwoo took a deep breath. “These papers prove it. In addition I can provide you information on the shell company, the money trail and the accounts accessed on both sides. I can even put you in contact with the person that got the information for me. In exchange…”

 

“What?” Jihoon snarled at his side. “In exchange, what?”

 

“In exchange, I want a job,” Jeon Wonwoo said flatly. “For my lover, and a place to stay. Please. I can’t think that a club owner in Itaewon is going to complain about his orientation, and he’s as good a bartender as I know. I just want to buy his safety, if that’s at all possible.”

 

Seungcheol ignored the claws turning in his belly, the feeling of betrayal and regret. “Fine,” he said hoarsely. “Jihoon-ah…”

 

“Give me the papers,” Jihoon ordered, and started rifling through them.

 

Seungcheol couldn’t look at them, couldn’t even focus on anything before a clink of glass came. When he looked up, Seokmin was standing there arranging three glasses before he slopped a measure of neat whiskey in each. He went from that to looking at Wonwoo, crossing to put his hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder to pat it reassuringly.

 

 _Family,_ Seungcheol realised with a deep breath. _I still have my family._

 

After a long time, broken only by the clink of glasses, Jihoon sighed and sat back, letting the papers flutter to the table. “He’s speaking the truth,” he said softly. “I’d still like to get them verified through independent sources, but on the face of it he’s speaking the truth, and that means we could use a bartender. Our old one just resigned, after all.” Bitterness laced the words, drowned in a gulp of whiskey.

 

Seungcheol lifted his gaze from his glass to Jeon Wonwoo. “If he really is a good bartender and our sources confirm this, he can come by and we can talk about starting pay. You clearly know the situation our club is in.”

 

Jeon Wonwoo moved to stand and cleared his throat. “I’ll… I’ll tell him to swing by. You have my thanks, Choi Seungcheol-ssi…”

 

“In addition,” Seungcheol said over him, stopping him mid-movement. “I’m going to need a manager. I don’t suppose that you’d be interested in the job. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give both of you a job, and I’ll try to pay you a market-related salary, but it’s going to be thin pickings until I can speak to that hacker of yours.”

 

“Hyung,” Jihoon started.

 

“No,” Seungcheol interjected. “If this is true, that’s blood money, and we can desperately use it, Jihoon-ah. If it’ll get us over the next few months, through reopening and making our lives a little easier, then I want it back. I want you to stop working two jobs, and I want Seokmin-ah to do the same. I want Channie to have new school clothes, some new things for once. It won’t ever bring my father back, but it’ll help. You can’t deny it.”

 

Jihoon looked from him to Seokmin, who was still staring at Jeon Wonwoo-ssi. “Seok-ah?” he tried.

 

“It’ll help,” Seokmin said softly. “As would extra grocery money, and if it’s true the man is his lover, then he’ll be vulnerable too.”

 

Seuncheol felt _guilty_ , not only because he felt dirty, but because that same dirt clung to Seokmin too.

 

“Trust me,” Jeon Wonwoo said. “You’ll understand when you see him. Kim Mingyu is not the type to prevaricate and… and he loves bikes too. He’ll fit in here, and I’ll do my best for his sake.” He swallowed. “I can call him and ask him to come over now?”

 

The future yawned open before Seungcheol, anchored only by his adopted brothers at his side. “Sure,” he said at length. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. So this is a weird bikers/gangster AU that's been hovering in my head? No guarantees on updating, but I have to get clean brain space. 
>   2. The summary sounds like some kind of glitzy high-crime thing? I tried at least, but it can't be further from the truth, it's going to be about the thirteen guys scrambling to survive separately and together. 
>   3. So yeah, um. Still not sure where this is going.
> 



	2. Four Months Ago

When Jeon Wonwoo had said that he’d understand when he met Kim Mingyu, Seungcheol didn’t understand. Now, two months after the first meeting, seeing him sit down with Seokmin and Chan, he finally did. Kim Mingyu was a _puppy._ He was bright and friendly and seemingly totally in love with Wonwoo, not afraid at all of showing it. He’d ambush him for a hug or a quick kiss throughout the entire club, and if the tiny family of four looked on quietly, they also looked on enviously, Seungcheol in particular.

 

God, he needed a one night stand or something.

 

What he hadn’t expected either was that Kim Mingyu would be the forensic accountant expert Jeon Wonwoo had mentioned. He had shown up promptly on that first day, had patiently taken them through the mess of papers to explain again, and had worked with the… information specialist Jeon Wonwoo had consulted to get their money back in a way that minimised their risk.

 

The guy might be the tallest, friendliest puppy he knew, but he had the mind of an attack dog, implacable and tenacious.

 

For all of that, his biggest boon to Seungcheol was that he made the younger Lees laugh like they haven’t laughed in a while. Even now, he’s jollied Chan out of his teenaged sulk about doing his homework, and he was doing something cute that was making Seokmin laugh like the sunshine should laugh.

 

“He’s fitting in well,” he muttered to Wonwoo before he turned from the one-way window into the club to consider his manager.

 

Wonwoo had a very small smile on his face as his fingers worked over the laptop’s keyboard. It was the only thing on the huge desk – apparently he could not work in chaos – and the speed at which he typed was just a little intimidating. “Everything’s going well enough. I’m about at the point where I can start paying attention to the other businesses too.” He paused. “The repair shop could use some assistance. The client list was loyal from what I can see…”

 

Seungcheol crossed the expanse of office to sink down on the sofa. “They are. I had thought we’d have to sell it, but the police and then the estate valuators locked it down before I could do so. I thought we should concentrate on the club first – this place can make more money – but if we can get in a couple of good mechanics we might be able to drag it through.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. So many things slipped through the cracks. I know you’ve been working hard. I don’t mean to pile this on you as well.”

 

Wonwoo shot him a look. “It happens,” he murmured in his quiet voice. “You four were in a tight spot. I’m only asking because Mingyu saw it in the books the other night, and I told you he’s a bike nut. He’s rebuilding my Horex Imperator for me – you saw her outside in the shed?”

 

Seungcheol blinked. “He is? That’s a significant kind of job… did he say whether he thought we could make it work? Gosh, I haven’t been back there in some time to check if it’s anything other than an empty shop.”

 

“All the stock is still there,” Wonwoo said. “An order supposedly came in just before your father’s untimely death. Even if it didn’t, there might be enough parts in storage to make things a little less tight, and the floor equipment is invaluable. Besides, it’d give you something to do other than stand about here in my office, messing up the place. You need to get out too.”

 

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. “Yes mother,” he deadpanned and heard Wonwoo’s snort.

 

When they got to the bar floor the three at the table looked up at them with smiling faces. “Bossman,” Mingyu crowed. “Can you believe I just got Seokkie to tell me a dirty joke in Mandarin?” He stood, crossing to Wonwoo’s side to give him a kiss on the cheek.

 

“I didn’t get it,” Chan complained. “And they don’t want to explain to me!”

 

“Do your Mandarin homework,” Mingyu deadpanned. “Then you’ll understand.”

 

Seungcheol grinned, ruffling his hair as he wandered past, dragging up a chair to straddle. To the side, Seokmin was still giggling in the midst of sharpening a set of bar knives – sharpening it with great verve too. “I wouldn’t understand either. How do you guys feel about taking a break from the bar tonight? Wonwoo just reminded me that the shop is still there, and that we should go and check over the stock. I thought Jihoon-ah might… actually, where is Jihoon-ah?”

 

“Out,” Seokmin muttered as he calmed down. “ _Hyung_ ’s on a date with that racer he met in the club he spun at last week. He’s been texting _Hyung_ pretty much non-stop so _Hyung_ agreed to make him shut up.”

 

Mingyu squeezed his tall self in between Chan and Wonwoo. “I think there’s potential there!” he said happily. “And I’d love to see the shop. Do you guys ride too?”

 

“Choi- _samchon_ taught all of us,” Chan said softly as he gathered his school things into his bag. “He wouldn’t let me ride on my own yet, but Jihoon- _hyung_ and Seokmin- _hyung_ did, and Cheol- _hyung_ of course… well, they did until they sold their bikes. It _sucked_. All so I could stay in that stupid expensive school.”

 

“Don’t start,” Seungcheol muttered. “It was our choice. Besides, Wonwoo-ah tells me that there might still be stock there, and you know how my dad was about security. If he locked it up, it’s likely still locked up, and we might turn it back into a business. Who knows, maybe a year or so from now, we might be able to get some bikes again, and we can go back to weekends like they used to be? Mingyu-ah, I heard that you’re rebuilding the Imperator? I don’t suppose you know another talented mechanic besides yourself that wouldn’t mind working odd hours?”

 

Mingyu gave a sigh and shook his head. “No, I’ve always learnt by myself, sorry. But at least we can take a look and see what’s still on the floor? You need a distraction from here too!”

 

Wonwoo smile briefly. “I told him that too, _jagi_. I’m beginning to think this family forgot how.”

 

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by Chan. “Actually…” He took a deep breath. “Actually, I might know someone?”

 

“Oh,” Seokmin said, leaning forward. “Is it that kid you told me about? The half-American one?”

 

Chan smiled. “Yeah, he was one year above me so I think he’s in uni now, he was saying something about being an engineering student.”

 

“I don’t know if a student will be able to make odd hours,” Seungcheol demurred.

 

“Trust me,” Chan said briskly. “You’ve never met someone like him. Can we go to the shop and I’ll call him to come over?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later and out of the Uber that got them there, Seungcheol unlocked the dusty chains and thick padlocks, then entered the combination the estate agent valuator had given him. They were greeted with a thick smell of dust and twilight as they stepped inside, but the lights still worked, and he felt sadness punch him in the chest as he looked at the serried rows of tarp-covered motorbikes, the boxes stacked neatly that hadn’t even been unpacked yet.

 

“Help me with the tarps,” he said tightly.

 

IT didn’t take them that long, and he was in tears when they revealed everything. Right there on the floor stood enough stock to have helped them through the lean winter months, if the banks hadn’t locked everything down immediately. Everything from scooters to one or two sports bikes, albeit last year’s models.

 

It was Seokmin that spoke first. “I don’t see Samchon’s Harley here?” he wondered as Chan bounced in from outside, phone out. “Do you think it’s in the back shop perhaps? Or did they sell it when they recovered it?”

 

“I phoned him!” Chan interrupted breathlessly. “He still remembered me. He said he’d come… right… over… holy frick, they’re all still here!”

 

“They sold it for estate tax fees,” Wonwoo said over Mingyu’s giddy exploration of the rows and boxes. “But…” He cast a look towards his lover, then the three standing at his side. “Mingyu-ah… did you want to tell him?”

 

Mingyu turned his model-face around, already smeared in dust, and smiled broadly. “We managed to track it down,” he said easily. “With some of the money Wonwoo- _hyung_ ’s, uh, friend recovered. I’ve been restoring it on the sly. It’s hidden at the back of the shed, we were going to surprise you as an opening present.”

 

Seungcheol stared and spontaneously started crying, big fat tears that didn’t even stop when Chan wrapped his arm around him. Sinking down into a squat, he cried as he hadn’t since the funeral and the lean months afterwards. The Harley had been his dad’s soul, the only thing he had loved besides the four of them since his mother’s funeral. He cried like a baby in Chan’s arms, grieving for the man that had been taken away from them prematurely.

 

* * *

 

He had finally stopped crying. Surprisingly, after a while it had been Wonwoo that came to sit with him, shoulder to shoulder, a quiet support, and who passed on a linen handkerchief that likely cost more than his monthly grocery bill. The younger boys had long since disappeared into the depths of the shop. He could hear them exclaim from the workshop’s direction, but if he went there now he’d cry again.

 

A rustle from outside made him perk up, and he looked up to see a kid with honey-blonde tousled hair stick his face in through the shop door. Seungcheol was getting inured to being among super-pretty people by now, given Wonwoo and Mingyu’s constant presence, but the young man took it to that half-and-half hotness. He _also_ looked like he was out of it, if the way he looked around with light brown eyes said anything. “Hey, can I help you?”

 

The young man made his way fully inside. “Yeah man, a dude named Lee Chan asked me to meet him here? Is this the right address?”

 

“Oh,” Seungcheol muttered as he straightened with a pop of knees. “Yeah. He said he called his friend. Sec.” He turned his head away and yelled down the corridor. “Chan! Chan-ah! Your friend is here!”

 

Chan came running out, covered in dust, but he beamed as he saw the visitor. “Hansol- _hyung_!” he called, giving him some kind of intricate handshake Seungcheol couldn’t decipher. “Thanks for coming man, I know it’s been some time since we spoke…”

 

“No stress,” Hansol said equably. “Why are we meeting here? I didn’t know you knew anything about bikes, you like that electric nonsense too much.”

 

“Hey,” Chan sulked. “It’s way better for the environment okay? And if you can find a reliable charge point it’s cheaper too, and less moving parts mean less wear-and-tear, and..."

 

Hansol grinned a broad, gummy grin. "Still as easy to wind up, huh?" He gave him a clap on the shoulder. "You said you had something for me to look at."

 

Chan grinned at him. "Yeah ok. Guys, this is Chwe Hansol.. Hansol- _hyung_ , these are my _hyungdeul_ l - you know Seokmin- _hyung_... that's my other _hyung_ Choi Seungcheol, and these are Kim Mingyu-ssi and Jeon Wonwoo-ssi, they work with us. Did you bring it? Your 'busa? Cheol- _hyung_ , can he wheel it into the shop whilst we talk?"

 

"Sure," Seungcheol said, a little lost.

 

Seconds later, seeing the sleek monster Hansol wheeled in, his eyebrows arched. He hadn't had his dad's flair with them, but even he could see it had had extensive work done. The paint was a deep, dark green and everything else glittered like treasure, impeccably cared for. The turbo on it was definitely aftermarket, as was just about everything he could see of the brakes and drive chain.

 

Mingyu seemed fascinated, moving to his knees next to it for a better look inside the sloping fenders, going so far as to shine his phone's flashlight inside for a better look. "You did this? All of this?" he questioned, voice muffled. "Did you custom-bore these inlets?"

 

"Yeah man," Hansol said, idly chill. "There was no way my family was gonna afford getting me a bike, so I got the chassis at a scrap yard and I've been filling her in where I could. My dad lets me have a little corner of our garage. I had to do those at the parts shop at uni though, couldn't get the kind of precision I needed at home." His voice faded as he wandered away, looking around. "Is this your shop? S'cool, man."

 

Mingyu shot Wonwoo a look over his shoulder and stood, dusting his knees off. "Did you flash the ECU to get it to accept the brake input changes? I won't be able to tell until I have her open, but those look like racing-grade."

 

Seokmin and Chain trailed along with Mingyu as he wandered after Hansol's answer, leaving the two eldest to look at each other.

 

"What was that?" Seungcheol asked. "That look he shot you."

 

Wonwoo stared after the lot. "I think... I think Mingyu might just have met a better parts man than himself," he said as he buttoned his suit jacket again. "He'll take him through the mill. For the moment, do you want to go and see what's in the rest of the place?" Unspoken, but not missed, the offer to be there when he went through his father’s old effects.

 

Seungcheol smiled and nodded, feeling almost cheerful. Fifteen minutes later, as they finally got into the garage's back storeroom, he felt like crying again. It wasn't a large place, almost too small for the three bikes carefully parked there. This had been his father's private domain, one not breached by any of the other workshop techs, which meant that these had been the last machines he had worked on himself. Two brand new Ducatis, the models that had come out just before he was killed, both showing the exquisite custom paint jobs his father had been known for and... he blinked and went to look at the third bike.

 

"What is it?" Wonwoo asked. "Your expression is so strange right now."

 

"It's an electric," Seungcheol breathed. He reached out to stroke the line of the seat, fingers gentle with it. "Two Ducatis and an electric. Dad must've gotten them for Jihoon-ah, Seokmin-ah and Chan-ah. I can't think of who else he might have meant them for. I'm glad we never knew these were here."

 

Wonwoo tilted his head. "Why?"

 

"Because they would have insisted on selling them as well," Seungcheol muttered, voice rough. "And we would have lost the last things he ever worked on, because we would have never gotten them back. I can't even think what these are worth on the collector's market. I’m still amazed you managed to get the Harley back."

 

Silence fell in the dusty, crowded workshop between them as Seungcheol pondered his father's legacy. The man had always been larger than life to himself and his three adopted brothers. Now, without him here, it made the shop feel very empty. “Help me wheel them out, please.”

 

* * *

 

Seokmin uttered a piercing scream when they rolled out the Ducatis; Chan burst into loud tears when he saw the electric and fell to his knees with his arms around it. “It’s a… a.. it’s a Lightning?” he blubbered out. “A Lightning! It’s the LS-219, I’m almost sure of it! What’s this doing here?”

 

Seungcheol stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “It’s for you, _pabo_ ,” he said affectionately. “Do you think my dad would have trucked with electric for anyone but you?”

 

Mingyu smiled at that. “I wondered what the wall-mounted unit in the bike shed back at the club was for,” he murmured. “Now I know. Charging station.”

 

“Hey dude,” Hansol said, sinking down on his haunches next to the Panigale. “This is sweet, man. This custom paint-job is the bomb, I’d recognise this work anywhere. Haru’s work is iconic, he can freehand like a boss. I wonder how your old man got him to do these. He doesn’t do much custom work anymore, I’ve not seen anything new on IG in months.”

 

Seungcheol’s smile turned sad. “You wouldn’t,” he said gently. “My father is dead. He… met an accident about eight months ago.”

 

Hansol turned to look at him with large eyes. “Your dad was Haru?”

 

“He called himself that because when I was younger, I couldn’t say ‘Harley’ properly,” Seungcheol explained. “And I kept bugging him to give me rides on his ‘Haru’. His sketchbooks should still be around here, if you want to take a look sometime?”

 

Hansol was the one that looked as if he’d cry at that. “Dude,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you so much. Is there an exam you want me to do? Can I work here? Please man, bikes are my life, you don’t understand.”

 

Intercepting Mingyu’s tiny nod behind Hansol, Seungcheol tilted his head. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I want to talk to your parents about it, make sure that they’re comfortable with it as well. And you won’t be able to have your grades slip at all, or I’d be obliged to hire someone else. But provided that they agree, we can give you a trial period.” He took a deep breath. “We’re still cleaning up at the club and that’s got to have our first attention, so your very first job would be to prove your trustworthiness and getting all of this stock checked in.”

 

Hansol nodded frantically. “I mean, my math is a little shaky, but the rest of my subjects are fine, I swear. Did you want to go now? We can go now. Only… er, do any of you have a problem with the occasional joint?”

 

Wonwoo grimaced; Seungcheol felt scarcely better about it, but everyone had different coping mechanisms. “No riding around lit, and no operating heavy machinery,” he specified. “Only after work, if you are here to study or something. No pushing on the premises, no drug dealers even close. No bringing your friends around to fool around. Mingyu-ah…”

 

“I’ll see to it, _hyung_ ,” Mingyu promised.

 

Seungcheol nodded. “If that’s it?” He waited for everyone’s nods. “Great. Let’s go and meet the Chwes.”

 

* * *

 

That night, resting alone in the small room he normally shared with Jihoon-ah, Seungcheol stared up at the ceiling and thought of Hansol’s parents. They were both lovely people. His mother, who used to be Serena Vernon before she packed up everything to move with her husband, was the easiest-going women he had ever met. She had made him feel welcome, but she had also decidedly sat in on the conversation he had had with Hansol’s father about the job offer.

 

The elder Chwe had clearly been hesitant about the whole thing, given that Hansol-ah was a first year student but bit-by-bit, as Seungcheol had explained the conditions he had had, and that it would also count as practice for the university, he had started to relent. The ease with which he had done so had perhaps had something to do with the excellent whiskey Seungcheol had taken with, but in the end there had been a happy family. When he had mentioned the small salary he could pay, explaining the circumstances, he had gotten the Chwe family seal of approval.

 

Now, thinking back about it, he wanted to tell Jihoon, celebrate another little milestone with him, but his eldest adopted brother was still not in, still out with the racer Seokmin had mentioned. There had never really been more than brotherly love between them, so he only felt jealousy that it hadn’t been him out on a date.

 

“Whatever,” he whispered to himself in the dark, rolling over on his side to finally fall asleep to the muffled thump-thump-thump of Chan-ah and Seokmin-ah dancing in the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, there's gonna be bikes in this, and SVT in bikes. 
>   * Mostly this is just background. 
>   * So many times I've seen people treat Mingyu like the puppy he's so like: adorable but a little dim. In this story he's fricking intelligent. Still, as an AU, expect characterisation that might be off from the accepted. 
>   * Does South Korea have Uber? I have no idea. They seem to be everywhere. 
> 



	3. Three Months Ago

Seungcheol sat down on the bench and absently made a note that it was creaky, putting it on his to-be-fixed list. To his left, Wonwoo-ya, looking decidedly out of place in a suit that cost more than his yearly electricity bill. On his right, Jihoon-ah, off-duty in ragged, torn jeans and a too-big baseball shirt. The kind of shirt he wouldn’t normally be caught dead in. Dark blue and slouchy; when paired with the way he slunk in here all boneless and apparently in a good mood, Seungcheol would bet dollars to doughnuts that his racer had put him through his paces last night.

 

He turned to look at the decades older man sitting across from them. Shin Jaebum was a face he had seen in the streets around the club sometimes, or queueing for Starbucks the days he slept at the club. Neat and unassuming, not very tall, but with some of the same reserve of Wonwoo-ya. At his side, one of the most beautiful women Seungcheol had seen in a long time, and she reminded him of a wild horse somehow – he wasn’t sure what it was, beyond the great force of personality in her forthright gaze. Oh Minhee looked like she belonged somewhere in parliament telling people what to do. Compared to her, Shin Jaebum looked like a wisp of water… but wisps didn’t survive in this part of town.

 

It was very little more than a twitch of a finger, but Shin Jaebum began to speak as if prompted. “We are from _Kkochjib_ , Choi Seungcheol-ssi,” he murmured smoothly. “May I first say that what happened to your father was a tragedy. He was much-beloved in the district, a true leader.” His hands folded together and he bowed over them. “It must surely be a great comfort to him that you are indeed continuing on with his passion in life. The past few months …” His thin smile faded a little. “We will always be discomforted that we were not able to assist more. We did not wish to disturb, thus we kept our visit until now.”

 

“Thank you,” Seungcheol said on autopilot, trying to remember if his father had ever spoken about this, or if he had heard the name before. “It is very kind of you to say such. I must regretfully report that I am unfamiliar with your club’s name?”

 

Oh Minhee managed to look both amused and censorious; it was such a complex look that Seungcheol adjusted her age up by almost a decade, though she didn’t look a moment over twenty-five. Still, she said nothing.

 

Shin Jaebum considered him. “He would not have,” he finally said. “Again my pardon, but expecting a young man to understand the intricacies of the _kisaeng_ is not realistic. Telling a beloved son that he is _gibu_ is not always possible. The position is fraught with much misunderstanding.”

 

At Seungcheol’s side, Wonwoo tilted his head, shoulders shifting a little under his expensive suit. “A very old position,” he murmured, then cut a glance sideways to Oh Minhee, who traded him glance for glance. Amazingly, it was Wonwoo-ya that dipped his head next. “My sorrow for your loss then, Oh Minhee- _seonsang_.”

 

She favoured him with a small nod and a tiny smile, but still did not speak.

 

Jihoon-ah stirred. “This is all getting cryptic. Someone please explain.”

 

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Although there are few _kisaeng_ traditions left, the position can be equated to that of a Japanese _geisha_ ,” he explained. “Entertainers, primarily, able to discuss cultural and political topics equally, and provide entertainment at parties and the like. They were also famed for their knowledge of needlework and medicine, I believe.”

 

Shin Jaebum gave a small smile. “Exactly so.”

 

“The young master is too kind,” Oh Minhee said for the first time, with a voice like a rippling brook. “We were also expected to be courtesans at times. _Kkochjib_ is not purely for entertainment, and it is not a pure house as my trainer would have understood it. There are men as well as women; when the path to _kisaeng_ presents itself, we try not to turn anyone away. Perhaps it would be easier for you to think of us as a culturally ancient host club.”

 

Seungcheol stared across the table at her, toting up the little clues. “You’re looking for protection,” he finally said. “Oh Minhee-ssi, did my father ever…?”

 

She looked him straight in the eye. “He was my _gibu_ , my protector, and that was it. He was faithful to your mother’s memory. There were many who would have offered, but no. He just watched over us.”

 

He tilted his head. “My father’s death created a vacuum in the area?” he questioned.

 

“More than you know,” Shin Jaebum said quietly. “There are always those who look to profit in areas such as this; I’ve received numerous offers from another _kkangpae_ interested in the area for ‘talks’, and once a man gauche enough to offer to sell me insurance. I was content in turning them away and we could for a while survive in that vacuum, but this morning the Triads paid us a visit and suggested that we accept their protection.” His mild-as-rainwater eyes glittered behind his glasses. “I would be remiss in my duties if I let yellow fever spread here.”

 

Seungcheol grimaced. Beyond a rather tacky description of Westerners flocking to Asians, it also referred to the way the Triad cancer was growing in their city. Even if he didn’t know as much about the situation as Wonwoo or Jihoon might, it was still a billion-dollar business. “In my father’s time, this was a protected area, true. Even though he had left his roots behind, I believe my respected grandfather instructed the Stone Dogs that he was to be left alone.”

 

“That would have lapsed when the Stone Dogs got new leadership,” Jihoon said at his side.

 

“Please,” Shin Jaebum said. “We have no wish to submit to foreigners, and also have no wish for a return to the old days. To have a patron that protected without presuming… that is a person worth their weight in gold.”

 

Seungcheol stared not at him, but Oh Minhee, before he shifted his attention to Jihoon, then Wonwoo. Reviving a flagging business was one thing; going up against the criminal element of Seoul was quite another. “I will have to think about it first. It is not an easy matter to consider. Do you speak only for yourself?”

 

“We represent a concerned subsection,” Shin Jaebum said, giving a quirky little bow again before he pressed a business card on the table.

 

“Between the _Choseungdal_ and the _Hyeseong-Gae_ ,” Oh Minhee said, “there is enough of an interest presented in this room that even a hint of acceptance might be enough. Even if you three have each, willingly or unwillingly, parted company with your houses.”

 

Jihoon, who had been silent, lost a little of his languorous ease and lifted his head to look at her. Still, it was Seungcheol that answered her. “In this house,” he said metedly, “we do not trade on the past. I will not claim affiliation with any family or organization that saw fit to discard talent or family. Thank you, Oh Minhee-ssi, Shin Jaebum-ssi, I will get back to you with a decision. Allow me to see you out.”

 

They bowed to him as they stood, and he escorted them out calmly, but his temper was flaring out of control. He kept the angry bile down long enough to watch them turn the corner before he punched the lintel of the door with a rough, irritated growl. “They fought,” he said as he turned. “Our fathers fought not to be caught in that business, and Wonwoo-ya is better away from it as well. Now they want us to get back in to protect them?”

 

Wonwoo smiled thinly. “My aversion to _jopok_ are entirely selfish, not morally or ethically speaking. It would be unwise not to consider this matter seriously. What befalls them now might befall us later.”

 

“I… can speak to the people that still might know me,” Jihoon muttered, coming close. “But we lose our freedom the moment we do that. We lose everything except a sense of ease.”

 

“No,” Seungcheol said, looking at the club, then to the two strong men in front of him. “We fought too hard, Jihoon-ah,” he finally said. “There will be no talking to our … former alliances. This is my family now. You three, Seok-ah and Channie, and Mingyu-ya and Hansol-ya. We’ll stand firm and we’ll stand on our own. I’m tired of running, I’m tired of walking with a bowed back. This is our ground. We just got it _back_ , for fuck’s sake.”

 

“Protecting it as such will be difficult,” Wonwoo said softly.

 

Jihoon, reading the slant of anger in Seungcheol’s jaw and shoulders, cleared his throat. “Chance is our only way of doing it. We’ll have to act quickly in raising the awareness of ourselves, both as protectors and honourable businessmen. This isn’t some scumbag city in the slums of East Asia. We still do have police. If we get them involved, if we get the district politicians and businesses involved, we might be able to nail something down here, and raise capital and visibility quickly enough. Very often money and influence are more respectable weapons than guns.”

 

Seungcheol, lured by the idea, felt his shoulders relax a little. Of the three of them, Wonwoo was the seasoned manager, and he the leader. Jihoon was… Jihoon was the _artist_ , and his ideas had often saved their hides in the winter that had passed in that tiny apartment. “You have an idea?”

 

Jihoon moved to slouch against the rickety booth again, ignoring the squeak of wood. “We’re bikers. You have a shop. We even have a Triumph in the club. Why not a biking event? Something like a legal street race, but actually on the streets? Pen some of the loop around Seoul off like they do in Monaco for the races there, tout a big horn about it being street-legal and involve the cops. Use the local businesses to raise awareness and get prizes from them. Work our contacts, the few we still have.”

 

“It might work, but I can’t see the police agreeing,” Wonwoo said, slithering back into the booth himself. “But if we can somehow get the _council_ behind it, they will hand it down to the police. It’ll cost a massive investment of political capital, however, capital I’m not sure we have.”

 

Seungcheol dragged up a chair. “I’ve yet to meet a politician that can’t be talked around to something by his aides and secondaries,” he murmured. “They’re always overlooked. The men and women that make things work, like Wonwoo-ya does. I’ve got a few bottles of good whiskey… I say we use _Kkochjib._ Not the sex part, ask if they can perform out, perhaps a pair of their most seasoned professionals. I don’t know about you, but I doubt there’s a politician in the city that lady that was here didn’t know. If they want our protection, they’ll have to wprk for it. I’m just worried about the actual race aspect. It would be nice to get a few pros to endorse it, if not sign up.”

 

Jihoon’s smile was small, but fierce. “How about a race partly developed and timed by Kwon Soonyoung?”

 

Seungcheol blinked. “The Tiger?” he asked incredulously. “The guy that won this year’s superbike races, Korea’s premier biker? He’s virtually a national treasure. I think the president gave him some sort of medal? How in the hell are we going to even get him to take notice of us?”

 

Slowly, Jihoon pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, scrolling around until he found a selca of two men on bikes posing against a sunset. One, small and serious, sitting on a Ducati Panigale, the other caught being cute with hands cupped around his face and life shining from his features, grinning like a loon. He turned it around so that they could see, clicking it down on the table. In the silent room, the light ‘click’ sounded almost like a gunshot.

 

“Holy fuck,” Seungcheol breathed, staring at the picture, then Jihoon. “The guy you’ve been seeing is the _Tiger?_ Jihoon-ah,…what?”

 

Jihoon’s smile grew a little. “Start planning the race. I’ll talk to him about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Being a non-Korean, I might not have gotten all the facts of the kisaeng houses correct. If so, I do apologise. For those that don't know, kisaeng were (very roughly) Korea's equivalent of the Japanese geisha, and a gibu is a man that is a protector to one of the ladies. There's much more history behind this, and I suggest people Wiki it at least, it's pretty interesting. 
>   * I don't know if 'yellow fever' is actually a thing beyond a real disease, but it sounded suitably insulting. 
> 



	4. Two Months Ago

Hansol hung over the cafeteria table at uni, feeling practically dead. Life had been far tougher lately, what with having to work in addition to being a student, but he felt vastly more accomplished about things. Perhaps it had something to do with growing up for the first five years in the USA, but he had loved bikes since he understood what they were – not just vehicles, but potential moving art, the best mix of top-flight engineering and art. He had had his first real job learning colours from graffiti as his mother walked him to and from kindergarten, and that love of alternative art and colour had stuck with him.

 

Every month he stuck it out at the garage, Seungcheol- _hyung_ gave him another journal to look at. Haru had been a phenomenal, prolific sketcher, and his personal notes in the margins had elevated Hansol’s admiration to a full-blown crush. The others at the garage all saw him as a dearly departed father, but Hansol… if Hansol had ever had the time to meet him properly, he would have wet himself. Even now, doodling in his sketchbook despite feeling dead, working so hard didn’t feel like a chore, more like a promise to himself: one day he would be as great a man as Haru had been.

 

Even the hours of simple, back-breaking restocking had helped. He had muscle on his arms now, and was losing the baby fat on his cheeks even as his stubble came in. Mingyu- _hyung_ had called his physical condition ‘woeful’ when he first saw him struggle with a full box of parts. Between the two of them, with Seungcheol- _hyung_ ’s approval, they had hung a punching bag in one far corner, and Mingyu- _hyung_ had given him a custom workout routine.

 

It was partly why he felt dead below the neck. Everything hurt.

 

Still, checking the stock in had done one good thing – most of it was for models that still sold well, and they had been able to sell a significant fraction of it, as well as accept a few repair and tweaking jobs. It had been enough to pay for Seokmin- _hyung_ ’s return to uni – he had said flatly he didn’t want to return to idol school, that he had missed too much time the past year – but at least he was enrolled in the drama department at KNUA, starting with his Bachelor of Arts.

 

No. Things were looking up for Chwe Hansol... if he passed Maths, that was. Things were starting to get grim. Professor Chang clearly thought that they had all graduated perfectly able to remember everything they learnt and had hit the ground running. He hadn’t understood above half of it, and every day he fell further and further behind.

 

“That’s really pretty,” a guy said at his elbow, and he practically flailed upright from the shock. He had been so zoned out that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching.

 

Looking up, he had to squint against the sun to see any details. Shorter than him by a bit, it seemed, mostly just a smile with the sun dazzling his tired eyes. “Yeah… um, thanks man. Sorry, would you mind stepping out of the sun? I’m working on like three hours of sleep here. It’s backlighting you something fierce.”

 

“Oh!”

 

The guy moved, making a full half-circle until he stood illuminated by the sun and smiled tentatively again. “Sorry. I… um, I just wanted to tell you that your sketches are really good. Are they for skateboards or something?”

 

Hansol couldn’t figure out how to reply at first. The guy had the strangest, roundest triangular-shaped face he had seen, with full cheeks and a nervous smile. All of that made him look like a kid, especially with the tumble of roan-red hair and cute beret on his head. The second impression he had was that he looked almost delicate, though that could also be Mingyu- _hyung_ ’s tall ass sticking in his mind. He was so pretty, so very, very pretty…

 

Chwe Hansol wasn’t the type to have gay panics. He wasn’t the type to panic at all, really, but right now looking at the guy made him feel like he was drinking coffee to make his heart beat faster. “No,” he said dumbly. “They’re for bikes. Motorbikes?” He also wasn’t sure what prompted his hands to move the sketchpad closer to the guy, other than the way his exhaustion was turning into nervous panic. “Sit!” He winced half a second later. “I mean, have a seat, please.”

 

The guy looked doubtfully at him but sat, pulling the sketchpad closer with delicate hands. “Thanks.”

 

The strange way he said it, plus the thick accent on the other words and the tan he had, made Hansol think about white sandy beaches and holidays. “Are you from Jeju?” he asked, swallowing to make his voice less tired-raspy.

 

“Was it the accent?” the guy asked wearily as he paused at one of the earliest sketches, a blown-up shot of his mother going over a stack of English homework he had done. “Oh, this is pretty… she’s beautiful, who is she?”

 

Pen poised in hand, a comically distraught look on her face, it had been one of the first times in his life he had tried a human being as opposed to a bike or an abstract design. Looking now, Hansol couldn’t remember doodling in the chain of daisies his sister had been making, but there they were, petals scattering messily off the table as they wound around a glass of water. Hansol swallowed again. “My mother,” he admitted.  “Chwe Serena. She’s American. I’m Chwe Hansol.”

 

The guy looked up to smile at him. “I know who you are.”

 

Hansol’s eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. Was there an almost-failing list somewhere he didn’t know about? Was it some kind of weird first year hazing? Had he borrowed money and forgotten it?

 

“How?” he blurted out.

 

The guy lifted the sketchbook and tapped the tiny row of characters in one corner. “You wrote your name here.”

 

Vernon stared at the guy, stared at the writing and decided to give up on trying to look suave. Obviously that was not on the books for today. He pinched his eyes shut and just shook his head, thinking longingly of his cool, dark bedroom with its blackout curtains. “Of course. Yeah. That’s me.”

 

The guy muffled a giggle, a fey little sound as if he either relished Hansol’s embarrassment or was amused by it. “I’m Boo Seungkwan, recently from Jeju. I’m, um, mostly a drama student. Vocal. Listen, we have this club we’re trying to form…”

 

Hansol pried one eye open to peek at Boo Seungkwan, attention immediately drawn by the way fine locks of roan-red hair flickered in the wind just outside the line of his beret. “I sing like a crow,” he said defensively. Technically it wasn’t quite true, but he simply didn’t have space for a club, not with Mingyu- _hyung_ working his ass off to get the shop ready for opening again. “So if you’re recruiting, I don’t think that I’m your man.”

 

Boo Seungkwan actually pouted at him, nose scrunching slightly. “I’m sure you don’t!” he defended as he continued looking at the sketches, this time a line of roses and doves meant to go on a fuel tank. “I wanted to know if I could hire you to sketch a mascot for our club. I really can’t pay very much, but I could add some cupcakes to make the deal a little sweeter?” He glanced Hansol’s way. “Chocolate?”

 

It was really more of a gut decision. “Brownies,” Hansol stipulated. “And it depends on the mascot but sure, I can try and doodle something. What do you want?”

 

It turned out that Boo Seungkwan wanted a _lot_ , but he wasn’t nasty and pushy about it. Instead, there was a kind of gentleness to him, a friendliness that reminded him of rare moments when Seokmin- _hyung_ smiled or laughed. He sketched him the mascot, a little songbird with comical features and a cute set of clothes, adding a little beret on the back of his head. In turn, two days afterwards when he swung into the shop, he had a tray of gooey brownies in a Tupperware container with him, the kind that had crispy bits along the outside and absolutely no weed on the inside.

 

“Hey,” Mingyu greeted, eyeing the large container of brownies as he plunked it down on the table in the tiny break room. “Don’t tell me you’re experimenting with edibles now. Did you bake those yourself or buy them?”

 

Hansol snorted and put his stuff away. “They’re payment for a sketch I made for someone. No weed until I’m done. I know the rules here, _hyung_.”

 

Mingyu fell silent behind him for a moment before the sound of him popping open the container came. “Is she cute?” he asked, partly as apology, partly curious. “These look goddamn delicious. Well done you. Is this your dinner? May I have one?”

 

Hansol stilled in front of his small section of the cupboard. “He’s cute,” he said at length, feeling tension rill down his spine. It wasn’t difficult knowing Mingyu- _hyung_ was as gay as they came, not with the way he trotted after Wonwoo- _hyung_ like an affectionate puppy, but… but it was still scary and he was _tired_. “No, I just thought we could share. Take one. I’ll take what’s left over home, or you can take it for the others or something.”

 

“Look, kid…”

 

Hansol close the cupboard door before he stripped to his boxers and stepped into his overalls. His mom had been at them again, they smelled like sunlight and flowers instead of grease and oil and manliness. “No offense man, but you’re like ten months older than I am. I ain’t your kid. And don’t start with the matchmaking thing, Chan warned me how you ambushed Jihoon- _hyung_ about his feelings for that biker. I don’t have time.”

 

Mingyu sighed theatrically, muttering something arcane in Russian before he spread his hands on the table. “I wasn’t even thinking about commenting about that,” he said patiently. “I can see you’ve had a shit day. Maths?”

 

Hansol swallowed, feeling slightly rebuked. “Yeah. Look, sorry man. I didn’t mean to snap.”

 

Mingyu waved the apology off. “Bossman’s not gonna be here today, he’s out looking at a new place for them to stay with Jihoon- _hyung_. Why don’t you go and punch it out on the bag, then catch a nap on the couch in the back room? I can handle things without you for two hours or so, it’s mostly just inventory management. After that, I want you to take a look at that Ninja we got in this morning, look at what’s necessary and compile me a price sheet. We can take a look at your Maths stuff after that.”

 

Hansol nodded and made his way to the door, already reaching for his earbuds.

 

“Hansol-ah,” Mingyu called as he was almost through the door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What’s his name, this cute guy?”

 

“Boo Seungkwan.” He continued to walk out, putting on some Drake, and totally missed the way Mingyu- _hyung_ ’s eyebrows arched at the vocal caress the syllables had been given.

 

* * *

 

Jihoon looked at himself in the mirror of the bathroom he shared with Seungcheol and heaved a sigh. He wasn’t sure why he was still going out with someone that would put five hearts after every text. That puppy at the club had said it was love, but some days it felt amazingly like acid reflux to him. Kwon Soonyoung was exactly the kind of guy he had thought he would be when he met him that first time: annoyingly loud, annoyingly persistent, the kind of guy that scribbled his presence on the world with bright crayon. Looking at him hurt Jihoon sometimes, but in the best of ways, stinging him awake from the increasingly crushing tedium of life.

 

His hands folded around the basin as he stared at the shower-fogged mirror, preferring not to wipe it clean just yet. If life had taken another way, he would have been the heir apparent of the _Hyeseong-Gae_ by now. Everyone would have lived somewhere in a mansion, they would have wanted for nothing, and he would have been groomed since he was little to take over. He would not have met someone like Kwon Soonyoung, much less in one of the Gangnam clubs spinning his brand of house music.

 

Would it have been for better or worse? Their life would have been suffering by other means, cooped up by what strict traditionalism and the _jopok_ required. No way to indulge his passion for music, or Seokmin-ah’s singing, or even Chan’s bright poutiness about life and everything in it. He wouldn’t have been able to admit even in the secret depths of his heart that he might like the frenetic energy of Korea’s premier racer.

 

He reached to wipe the mirror clean, irritated by himself, and started to shave.

 

An hour later, sitting on the shoulder of a park road on the outskirts of Seoul, he stared at the bright glitter of its lights, early to their picnic spot for once. Reaching up to unzip his jacket and take his helmet off, he fluffed his hair against the night breeze and squinted off to the sides. The ZX-10RR’s engine noise was distinctive, at least this far into the countryside, and he glanced off to one side as Soonyoung made it to his side.

 

“Jihoon-ah! You’re … early?” Soonyoung said, hauling off his helmet almost before stopping his engine, and he leant sideways eagerly to collect a kiss.

 

One of the most persuasively attractive things about Kwon Soonyoung was that when he shut up, he shut up _good_ ; Jihoon allowed the kiss to linger and linger, enjoying the feel of lips on his. When he absolutely couldn’t stretch it out much longer – it was a fine art of balancing if you were both still on bikes – he pulled away, reluctant to admit that even just that had cheered him up. “We went apartment-hunting today. I didn’t go in to the club after all. Besides, I only arrived a minute ago, not that early.”

 

Kwon Soonyoung’s face was as bright as a star when he smiled. “Are you free tonight? Was there something you wanted to do?”

 

Jihoon considered him. “I want to go for a long ride,” he admitted quietly. “And then I’d like to fuck my memories back where they should be. They’re too heavy tonight. We can find a hotel somewhere.”

 

Soonyoung frowned at that. “I’m not going to fuck in some kind of kitsch one-night-stand hotel, Jihoon-ah,” he reproved. “We’ve done that, it’s not what I like. It’s not what you like either. No.”

 

“No?” Jihoon said, irritation flaring. “Well then…”

 

Soonyoung stilled him with a glove-clad hand on his face. With them on, his hand was huge and cool, covering Jihoon’s right cheek entirely from temple to chin. “We’ll go to my place,” he soothed. “I live alone, remember? Besides, the cleaning service went through there earlier today, so it’s nice and clean even. I could introduce you to my bed? And… and… my bathroom has a tub, if you want to soak, or I just got some new games in?”

 

Jihoon’s temper subsided a little and he slumped against his Ducati’s steering column. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Yeah. That’ll be nice.”

 

“Why are your memories plaguing you?”

 

“I was writing earlier today,” Jihoon allowed. “I was wondering what would have been different if my life took a different slant. I don’t know which way would have been easier. It made me uncomfortable.”

 

Soonyoung looked at him quizzically. “Maybe it’s also the apartment hunting? Last time I looked for a new one, I reflected on how I had gotten there… for about five seconds.” He grinned roguishly. “But I’ll more than happily help you forget. Let’s hit the road, there’s a nice rest stop about fifty clicks away. I’ll buy us some snacks and we can take them back to my place and talk.”

 

"Sec," Jihoon muttered, tugging one glove off with his teeth to get his phone out. A quick text to their group later, he nodded as he pulled the glove back on and his helmet over his head, starting the Panigale. The coughing, tearing snarl of the engine kicking on rilled down his spine, soothing nervous flutters.

 

"Let's go," he muttered over the in-helm comms to Soonyoung. "Race you. Last one gets to bottom." He could hear Soonyoung's laugh bright and clear as he pulled away, and fancied he felt a little lighter.


	5. One Month Ago

The test results on the table in front of him wasn't promising. It wasn't promising at all. It was in fact the furthest thing from 'promising' that Hansol had ever seen. He pinched at the bridge of his nose as he thought back to the paper. He had been so sure this time. After what Mingyu- _hyung_ had explained, he had thought he really understood the concept, but _clearly not_.

 

Sighing, he scraped it up into one hand and moseyed over to the back storeroom, where Seungcheol- _hyung_ sat doing something arcane which was not at all playing a racing game on his phone. Business was a little slow still, and with the race idea truly entering the last stage of negotiations, it seemed as if they could take a bit of a break.

 

He waited as politely as he could until the stage ended with a fiery crash and a muttered expletive before he cleared his throat. "Boss," he muttered. "D'you have a moment? I sort of have a problem."

 

Seungcheol lifted his head, tips of his ears faintly red at being caught playing games. "Hansol-ah? Sure, come on in and have a seat. What's wrong?"

 

Biting his lip, Hansol sank down on an old, empty drum. "It's Maths," he said. "I'm kind of failing miserably. I even sat with Mingyu- _hyung_ , and I just don't get it, I'm sorry. I don't want to stop working here. I just..." He sighed, shrugging slowly. "I don't know what to do, man. I would ask Chan-ah, but it's not the same kind of maths, and Seokmin- _hyung_ tried to have a look but he didn't know either."

 

"Whoa whoa," Seungcheol said, taking the paper that drooped from his fingertips. "I'm not going to fire you because you did bad on a test..." He took a look at the paper, winced a little and sighed. "I'm not going to fire you just because you did extremely bad..."

 

"Thanks," Hansol interjected sourly.

 

Seungcheol eyebrowed him. “Twenty-one would be an excellent score if you were playing blackjack, but yeah. We can’t just overlook it, your father’s gonna hit the roof.”

 

Hansol wiped at his face, adjusting his cap. “He’s gonna go nuclear,” he confirmed morosely. “It’s just… I really like this job, man, it’s interesting, and cram schools will eat into my time here and they’re way expensive. Besides, they don’t really explain. I dunno what to do.”

 

“Have you thought of getting a tutor?” Seungcheol asked, looking at the paper again. “Seokmin-ah had to get one for Italian. Perhaps you can find out if there are any available this late in term, even if it’s just a second-year or something. Anyone that’s surviving, or survived the course. Even if they can just recommend some old exam papers or books you can work out of.”

 

Grimacing, Hansol nodded. “I can try. Um, is it ok if I ask them to come here? Ren- _hyung_  has the early shift, so we won’t be disturbing him, I think?”

 

Seungcheol smiled at him and handed back the test. “Sure, as long as they’re ok with the same rules. Let me know how it goes.”

 

Hansol straightened, managing a skewed smile. “Thanks man. And, eh, good luck with the game.”

 

“Out!” Seungcheol shouted, pointing towards the door.

 

Hansol went, grinning slightly.

 

The next day, scooting into the Maths department’s offices, he nearly mumbled as he asked the secretary whether there was a list; when she rolled her eyes and pointed him to the list pinned up to one side he felt miniscule. Most of the names weren’t familiar to him at all, and some of the prices being charged for an hour’s tuition were shockingly high. Most were third years, but towards the end of the list he came across a few other names; when he saw the second-last one his eyebrows arched slowly.

 

There, inscribed in a cheery light purple ink, was a name he hadn’t thought about in a bit: Boo Seungkwan. Very neat handwriting, with what looked like a tiny little ghost pointing the way to his phone number.

 

_What’s a Drama guy doing on here?_

 

“Ma’am?” he asked nervously, looking at the strict secretary. “Um, this guy here… Boo Seungkwan? He’s in Drama, isn’t he? Not the sciences?”

 

“He’s taking a minor, he’s a valid tutor,” she said metedly, not looking up from her keyboard. “His grades match the requirement." 'Unlike yours' was entirely unspoken but entirely clear. "Are you done?”

 

Hansol felt just a little pole-axed, nodding dumbly from shock. Quickly, if only to get out of the office, he scribbled the Jeju boy’s cell and residence number down, and beat a retreat as quickly as he could.

 

Outside, plagued by memories of roan-red hair and a brilliant smile, he bit his lip and made for class.

 

That evening, acting more on a gut feeling than anything else, he open Kakao on his cell and started typing.

 

 **HVC:** hi, r u still doin maths tutoring?

 

No reply. He had just about lost his nerve waiting and gone to make coffee instead when his phone pinged.

 

 **JejuBoo:** Hi! Yes, I am still available for tutoring! Did you want to meet up to discuss it? Whose class are you in?

 

 **HVC:** Professor Kim Jong-Un.

 

He got a picture of a laughing cat back, three eye-wiping emojis and a ‘Professor Chang Haeil?’

 

 **HVC:** yeah him

 **HVC:** I’m first year and not keeping up at all. can we talk now? Kinda panicking, ngl

 

 **Jejuboo:** Sure we can, I’m just about done with my club activities. How much help do you think you’re gonna require? Do you want to meet up somewhere to talk?

 

Hansol considered the time, considered the dismal score on his paper and sighed. He had wanted to go sleep early, but…

 

 **HVC** : yeah, I can pick u up at uni if you want, you wanna go to Momo’s? if u are not scared of bikes

 

 **Jejuboo:** Ok… I will see you outside in 30. Do you have an extra helmet?

 

 **HVC:** yeah i can bring you one

 

Scooting up and grabbing his riding gear, he wiggled into the snug, protective embrace scooted, grabbing a helmet from stores on the way out. “Off to find a tutor!” he bellowed to the front of the shop, catching Ren- _hyung_ ’s wave on the way out, and went for it.

 

The trip to the dorms didn’t take too long from Hongdae, barring a cop pulling him over to see if he was riding legally, and he arrived just as Boo Seungkwan stepped out of the dorm. It was the blonde hair that hit him first, then the preppy clothing that’d do nothing at all if they crashed, then the uncertain smile as the other stepped closer to him. Swallowing, he hauled his helmet off and grinned nervously. “Long time no see, Boo Seungkwan-ssi.”

 

Seungkwan blinked, actually giving a step back, before he straightened his shoulders. “Chwe Hansol-ssi?” he asked, eyes widening. “Were… you the one that contacted me about tutoring?”

 

Hansol’s last frayed nerve snapped – of all the times he could really use a joint – and he nodded ruefully, having to force tension out of his frame. “I brought a helmet so we can speak? It’s a little noisy… um. Here.” Handing the helmet over, he kicked the kickstand down and dismounted, unzipping his jacket. “It’s going to be cold, and it’s not safe just in a shirt like that, so here, please wear this?”

 

Seungkwan, looking between the jacket and the long-sleeved thermal shirt under as if he wanted to comment, nodded wordlessly, letting Hansol fuss the jacket onto him and zip it up to his neck. It was a trifle too wide through the shoulders and definitely too wide through the waist when he plucked it down into place; it felt weird to notice Boo Seungkwan had a waist smaller than his. It was also awkward, getting him into the safety of the helmet and onto the bike behind him, and Hansol swore his heartbeat would jump from his chest from the set of arms around him.

 

Driving to Momo’s was… weird. Very weird, especially if you counted on how slowly he did it and how quiet it was. “Are you ok back there man?” he asked after a few minutes of silence. “It won’t take long. Are you scared?”

 

Seungkwan’s sigh only came moments later. “A little? This isn’t the kind of bike I thought a student would have.”

 

Hansol smiled into the protection of his helmet and lifted one hand to pet at the hands clinging cramp-tight around his waist. “I won’t let you get hurt, promise.”

 

Silence fell again and it wasn’t until they had gotten to Momo’s, he had parked and they had both gotten off that he saw Seungkwan’s face again. He said nothing, choosing to help him with the helmet and the jacket instead, and led the way into the café. It was popular enough that it was quite busy, so when the other spotted a table in the back and rushed it, he obediently followed after, putting the stuff down before slipping his wallet out of the jacket still around Seungkwan’s shoulders. “What do you want? My treat, Mr. Tutor.”

 

Going through the paces of ordering for the two of them calmed him, and he felt a tiny portion of his normal chill reappear. “Here,” he muttered, putting Seungkwan’s tea on the table, then a slice of Castella cake before he curled around his coffee, sipping it slowly. “How’s Boo-chan working out for you?”

 

Dimples appeared as Boo Seungkwan smiled. “Everyone loves him very much!” he said with a laugh. “People are always asking me if I drew him. He’s still bringing me good luck. We have fifteen people in the club so far and he’s on all our official documents and some flyers I had made, and a pin…”

 

Hansol nearly choked on his coffee? “You made a pin out of him?” he asked, somehow vastly amused. “If I had known, I would have coloured him and given you some poses as well.”

 

“No no, he’s perfect!” Boo Seungkwan took a fussy sip of tea, then a bite of Castella. “But your tutoring? It’s for Maths, right, that’s what you said over Kakao?”

 

Wriggling, Hansol dug out his crumpled test results and passed it over, letting it speak for itself. He watched the other’s face for his reaction and wasn’t let down – first pink from embarrassment, then arched eyebrows, then a thoughtful noot-face as he went through the paper answer by answer.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he finally said ruefully. “I see what you mean. This might require quite a few sessions.”

 

“My job is literally dependent on me not failing a single course,” Hansol explained.

 

Boo Seungkwan looked thoughtfully at him. “If you’re in Professor Chang’s class that means something in the harder sciences, right? What are you studying, and where is it that you work? I generally don’t like tutoring in the dorms, it’s not quiet enough there, and if you have a job you might not make it to the library…”

 

Hansol grinned ruefully at him. “Can confirm, I’ve not seen the inside of the library at all. I’m in Mechanical Engineering. I work at a bike shop over in Hongdae. The owner is ok with us doing the tutoring there as long as it’s after five, and I can pick you up and drop you off if you want. If you’re not afraid of it now.”

 

Boo Seungkwan handed the paper back to him. “Tutoring’s going to be a little more costly if I can’t walk there, but I have a scooter? I just don’t want to ride back if it’s very late, the traffic here is terrible and the scooter’s very old.”

 

“What price did you have in mind per hour? The new one, I mean.”

 

“Fifty thousand won an hour,” the other said confidently.

 

Hansol considered. He could make it on his salary, but it’d cut into his free money quite a bit. “Can we perhaps make it forty thousand an hour, and I’ll throw in meals and free services?” he offered. “Mingyu- _hyung_ normally cooks for us before he goes to the club, he’s quite decent, and he’s a health nut, so it’s not all ramen and stuff, promise. Plus, I can look at the scooter for free.”

 

Boo Seungkwan lifted his hands to his cheeks to pat them. “That’s why I look like this,” he said sorrowfully. “Too much ramen. We can see how it goes the first time? As long as it’s not all salad!”

 

Hansol felt a lightness of spirit settle in the tenseness between his shoulders, and smiled at his new tutor.


	6. Today pt. 1

The early night felt still and quiet, but pregnant with the possibility of a thunderstorm. It had been looming all day in drifts of sullen heat, to the point where Seungcheol prayed for surcease. The helmet matted his hair to the nape of his neck; bike leathers might be a fine thing for protecting against skin damage, but he was sweating so much in them that he was in danger of falling off of his bike.

 

He really, _really_ wanted a drink. Right now he wanted a drink more than he wanted sex, and he hadn't had _that_ in over three months.

 

He nearly cursed out loud when he finally arrived at the back of the building in Itaewon, yanking his helmet off as he parked his chopper in the shed, right next to Wonwoo's souped-up Horex Imperator. Beyond it stood Hansol's newly blue monster, neatly draped with plastic to protect the aggressive lines of the custom Hayabusa. From the look of them, not to mention a hand held near the engines, they've been here for some time already.

 

No sign of the Lee brothers yet, but then they had school. Woozi would be in later, but he didn't expect the other two until Chan had finished with cram school. Seokmin might be getting more easy-going, but he still kept his baby brother on a leash when it came to studies.

 

Grimacing, he raked his hair back from his forehead and shrugged his jacket open, feeling the stiff reinforcing give as he wandered into the back of the bar. He technically owned the business (and the building), but days like today he was glad he had Wonwoo as a business manager. The man was as soft as jiggly tofu in real life but had the same kind of charisma as movie villains, all slick and hard and poisonous.

 

Waving to the cooks as he stamped through the kitchen, he took the back corridor of the building to enter Wonwoo's lair. The place smelled of cold aircon - welcome after the heat - and chill leather, a smell he messed up when he tossed his helmet and jacket on the couch and cracked the tension between his shoulders. "Wonwoo-ya. All okay here tonight?"

 

Wonwoo shot him a look from behind a massive desk, laptop the only thing marring its space-age surface. "Well enough," he said restfully. "We're all set for the race later tonight. It ought to be a good showing."

 

Seungcheol's interest perked. A night race, a _legal_ night race on one of the longest loops around Seoul, the event had been in planning for months, and the permits had been a nightmare. The only pleasant thing had been the bottle of scotch he shared with the police commissioner that had clinched the deal. "Anyone interesting? What's the buzz?"

 

"A few," Wonwoo admitted. "You have the usual superbike crop, and Soonyoung-ah was around here earlier showing off his ZX-10RR and pouting that he couldn't enter the race." He paused. "You're still firm on that, right?"

 

Seungcheol wandered to the one-way window to look down into the club. "Don't you think it'd be a bit much to allow the bike that won this year's Superbike challenge into the race?" he asked mildly. "Besides, letting hobbyists ride on the same course as The Tiger is asking for trouble, especially when Jihoonie's going to be joining as well." He paused. "I don't suppose they've kissed and made up by now."

 

Wonwoo reached into a drawer to produce a bottle of soju and two glasses. "They're still on the outs. Miracles occur, but not that frequently," he said very drily. He poured, saluted his boss and spun his laptop around to display the front parking cam shot. "A couple of interesting contenders though. Have a look see."

 

Seungcheol sipped at his soju and leant to take a look. The side of the bar's building looked more like a motorbike exhibit hall than a side avenue. He combed over numerous entrants, all meticulously taken care of, none very likely to win. On the side, a splash of pure white drew his attention. "Is that a Sur Ron?" he asked, frowning a little at the unfamiliar lines. "A White Ghost, right? Damn, Channie's going to be sad to have missed another e-bike enthusiast. And... holy shit, is that a yellow scooter?"

 

Wonwoo blinked, stared at the screen for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, it belongs to the kid that's tutoring Hansol." For a moment his cold facade wavered into a smile. "He had a flower helmet. It was the cutest thing ever."

 

Grinning, Seungcheol shook his head and panned the camera a little. "Mmh, that Bonneville is a beauty, isn't it? Expertly restored. I can't see that entering."

 

"No, but look beside it. Bonneville's boyfriend is definitely entering. It's a little difficult to see, because it's in a dark corner, but someone clearly means business with that CBR."

 

Blinking, Seungcheol stared until he could make out the sleek lines of the matte-black bike. It lounged at the Bonneville's side like it was hiding from a police presence. "They came in together?" he asked. "Is that street-legal? I can't be sure, but it looks like it's this year's racing rebuild. I'm not sure if we should let it in if we’re kicking Hoshi out for the same thing." Irritated with the cling of the sweat-wet shirt to his back, he reached behind him to haul it off, rubbing the sweat off his hair in the process. "Do you have a spare...?"

 

Wonwoo motioned with his chin to a dark cupboard. "Over there." He paused as he watched Seungcheol saunter over. "There might be a slight problem."

 

Pulling a clean shirt on over his shoulders, ignoring the stark contrast of Prada and leather, Seungcheol idled back. "What?"

 

Wonwoo silently panned over to the far right of the bike stand and zoomed in. "It's a little difficult to see because of the covers, but that's a '00 'busa." He paused. "With significant engine work afterwards. I've not eyeballed it myself, but Mingyu tells me it's got a custom turbo on it."

 

Seungcheol stared at the dark machine. It was totally different from Hansol's electric blue beast; the colour was a red so dark it might as well have been black. "Mingyu said so?" he muttered unhappily. Wonwoo's boyfriend was one of the best mechanics at his shop, outdone only by Hansol's weird Zen relationship with the parts. "There's no way it's street-legal. It doesn't have the limiter on."

 

Wonwoo cleared his throat. "That's not the problem," he finally said, fussily adjusting the camera back to a wide shot. "It's the owner." He pulled up another shot, this one at the door, of one of their bouncers locking a no-alcohol bracelet around a young girl's wrist. Thin, on the tired end of girl-next-door pretty, and as short as Jihoon.

 

"She looks like she should be playing with dolls," Seungcheol muttered. "Not with a bike that looks as if it weighs six times more than she does wet. Did she try to enter? Is someone keeping an eye on her?"

 

Wonwoo shook his head. "No. She's not one of the contestants. That's, um, that's Overwatch."

 

It took Seungcheol a moment to remember the name. "The hacker?" he finally asked faintly. "The one that we hired to get us out of that jopok mess? But she looks like she's younger than Channie! Did she name herself after the game?"

 

"The same age, if the ID she presented was legal," Wonwoo said, standing as he closed the laptop. "And I believe so. There are rumours she's connected to the Kim family somehow."

 

 _Trouble indeed._ Seungcheol generally had a devil-may-care attitude, but the Kim family was bad news, as was their... well, best to call it a private security firm. The founder, Kim Seokjin, had made news when he left the family engineering company and started BTS Securities with his trust fund. For a man that looked like a model, the CEO had a mind like a shark. A hungry shark.  "Well shit," he said out loud. "Nothing we can do about it now. Let's get down to the floor."

 

* * *

 

Passing by the rest of the staff rooms he poked his head into the room to greet Hansol and his tutor, a kid by the name of Boo Seungkwan. Seeing the two heads bent together made him smile; the kid seemed as happy and forthright as Seokmin's sunshine days, and showed little fear at sitting in what was a biker bar for all intents and purposes. Scooting further down, he finally melted into the crowd, leaving Wonwoo to go and greet his boyfriend.

 

It took him two drinks, three short conversations and a host of greetings before he made it to the corner the bartender indicated. There were two guys lounging there, scarcely younger than himself if he had to judge, with one stretched out sleeping and another reading his phone in the insufficient light. He didn't need better light to see that both were dazzlingly pretty. The one with the cat-tilted eyes set in a face like a fox looked up from his phone and smiled quizzically at him.

 

All of a sudden he regretted throwing on one of Wonwoo's shirts. It wasn't often that he felt uncomfortable in what he was wearing, but this guy managed it. "I'm looking for the owner of the Honda CBR1000RR? We need to talk about race participation."

 

The guy's quizzical look turned into a sweet smile that melted the confusion off his heart. "You want Hannie for that." He reached to fluff his fingers through the sleeping guy's hair. "Wanna sit down?"

 

Seungcheol slipped into the booth, skipping the long, lean lines of the legs that stretched over to his side. "Then the Bonneville is yours?" he asked curiously. "It's lovely, expert restoration job. I didn't think you'd be able to find replacement parts this far towards the East. They must be almost prohibitively expensive."

 

"Joshuji is from America," the sleeping man yawned. He opened lazy eyes but didn't sit up, choosing to remain with his head on his boyfriend's lap. "Who are you? Joshuji, is he dessert? I've been a good boy, right?"

 

“I don’t know, Hannie,” ‘Joshuji’ murmured softly. “Does he look like dessert?”

 

Seungcheol nearly choked on his saliva at the frank look the two gave him. "No. I mean, I'm Choi Seungcheol, your host for the race. We need to talk about your bike. We specified street-legal, so I need to know what you did to her after-market to see if it still fits."

 

"I'm Hong Jisoo," 'Joshuji' said with a pinch to hot-and-lazy's side. "This slacker is Yoon Jeonghan."

 

Jeonghan grumbled as he sat up straight. "Not much. I had the garage strip her a bit, but otherwise she's still stock. I'm still deciding whether I want to invest full-time.” He wriggled and writhed, body sketching increasingly erotic lines until he wiggled his keys out of his pocket, tossing them towards Seungcheol. "You can have a look if you want. I'm going back to sleep." He promptly fit deed to word, turning and resting back to nestle his face into Hong Jisoo's thigh.

 

Blinking, Seungcheol stared from the keys to Jisoo's fox-face, hoping desperately that his incredulity outstripped his arousal on his face. "Is he for real?" he finally asked.

 

Jisoo gave him another angel-smile. "Miraculously so, yes. Don't be a bad boy and try to steal it, okay? I get upset when Hannie gets upset."

 

Seungcheol shook his head and stood to leave, trailed by the uncanny feeling that he definitely didn't want Hong Jisoo mad at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * For those that want notes on the people so far, pls see below. 
>   * Seungcheol: Age: 22. Owns the club and a mechanic business, is working hard to keep his stretch of Itaewon out of gang/organised crime hands. Has the Lee brothers as his adopted family, employs Wonwoo, Mingyu and Hansol. 
>   * Soonyoung: Age: 21. Top bike racer, current world champion, in on-again-off-again relationship with Jihoon. 
>   * Wonwoo: Age 21. Seungcheol’s right hand man, manager of the club, Mingyu’s boyfriend. Also the bastard son of an infamous jopok, the Choseungdal. 
>   * Jihoon: Age: 21. Bartender/DJ, in relationship with Soonyoung. Was 15 when parents died mysteriously. Looked after his two younger brothers, Seokmin and Chan. 
>   * Seokmin: Age: 20. Aspiring student, works in corner shop at night, looks after and mothers Chan. Wanted to be a singer, often goes to noraebang with Soonyoung. 
>   * Mingyu: Age: 20. Bartender at club, speaks five languages fluently, mechanic, creative accountant. 
>   * Seungkwan: Age: 19. Tutor, drama major with science minor (in particle sciences!) The latter is due to family pressure. Rides a yellow scooter and has a flower helmet. 
>   * Hansol: Age: 19. First-year mechanical engineering student, actual mechanic, has a nasty habit of being blissed out, might have a small crush on Seungkwan, has a ‘touch’ for bikes. Works at the same shop as Mingyu, which Seungcheol owns. 
>   * Chan: Age: 18. Avid player of CS:GO, too intelligent for his own good, being groomed as heir to the business once Seungcheol sells it back to the Lee brothers. Doesn’t like studying, but is desperate for good CSAT scores so that his brothers will Shut Up. 
> 



	7. Today Pt. 2

Minghao wheeled the Suzuki B-King into a safe spot outside the club that Junhui had chosen, eyebrows arching imperceptibly at all the bikes on display. They were safe from the downpour in the small side avenue next to the bar; whoever the owner was clearly knew his crowd, and had built a roof to protect everything from rain. Just a cursory glance showed him everything from a small yellow scooter (what the fuck?) to Junhui’s street toy, the Sur Ron.

 

An electric. He was on assignment with someone that liked an _electric_. Grimacing, he locked up, swung his leg off and went to pay for a sheet of veiling plastic, draping it lovingly over the B-King. With his bike taken care of, he wandered to the edge of the covered area and wished that he smoked still – the night was beautiful with the rain sheeting down on the clean Seoul streets, and a light wind wiggled fingers through his damp hair as he pulled the helmet off his head. The scene looked more like a copy of a futuristic cyber-anime than anything else, with Itaewon’s neon flowers a little dimmed here and the sound of cars muffled by music.

 

Shaking his head, he wandered around the side and into the bar, making note of the ID he flashed the bouncer. It didn’t take him long to find Junhui at the bar, chatting up a very tall, very pretty bartender. Despite that, he flashed Minghao a grin as the latter sat his ass down, grunting with ill-concealed comfort the bar stool offered his sore butt. “Old-fashioned, please,” he muttered at Tall Hot Bartender’s inquisitive look, wishing it was the kind of place he could order wine, and raked Junhui’s basket of fried veggie tempura closer.

 

“Ge,” he muttered in their native language. “Aren’t you afraid they’re going to revoke your street cred with that piece of electric trash you have outside? I love China as much as the next man, but a Sur Ron?”

 

Junhui dragged his glance away from the bartender’s leather-clad ass to shoot him a wide grin. “Big words from such a little man.”

 

Minghao’s teeth crunched vindictively through the piece of tempura, trying not to a) get angry or b) blush. He cursed the genetics that had made him slimmer and shorter than Wen Junhui, or that had given the other such an playful demeanour. Knowing he was a gigantic clown didn’t make his appeal any less.

 

“Actually,” the bartender chipped in in perfect, if accented Mandarin, “there’s a growing electric enthusiast crowd here in Seoul. Emission guidelines are getting strict, and gas is getting more expensive than electricity, especially if you have a solar generator.” His lips quirked into a smile as they both turned to stare at him, sliding Minghao’s drink towards him on a coaster. “One old-fashioned.”

 

“You didn’t tell me you spoke Mandarin so well!” Jun exclaimed. “Instead you listened to my Korean?”

 

Minghao dipped his head in thanks and took a sip, fighting the impulse to roll his eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered in Korean. “Please excuse my friend. He has no tact.” Another pause, another sip. “I’m Xu Minghao. Please tell me you’re not another electric enthusiast? It’s almost as bad as old folks and their Harley fixation.”

 

The bartender put his hands down on the bar, muscles working in arms laid bare by a sleeveless shirt, shooting him a gleaming smile. “Don’t let my boss hear you say that about his baby,” he grinned. “I’m a Yamaha boy. Recently got hold of an advanced model of the 2019 YZF R1. I hope you guys aren’t planning on entering the race, I’d happily smoke a couple of strangers and take their money.”

 

“You could definitely smoke me and…” Jun started, but subsided at an ankle-kick from Minghao. “I’m not planning on entering. My White Ghost is strictly city driving. It’ll take time for my Augusta to get here through customs. I’ve done too much work on her to just pick something up at a shop like my _esteemed_ friend here.”

 

Feeling no guilt at all about flipping Jun the bird, Minghao took another sip. “I don’t have my custom here either,” he admitted quietly. “I came on a B-King, but I’ve yet to find a reputable shop that I’ll feel okay trusting her to. Too many places just specialise in tacky recolours.”

 

Mingyu leant down on his forearms. “You should come by our shop,” he suggested, reaching into his back pocket to give Minghao a warm slip of cardstock. “There’s a kid you need to speak to called Hansol. He’s a whiz on Suzuki models – he has a ‘busa he practically rebuilt from start, so the concepts should transfer over. I… oh hi, baby.” He straightened, leaning back to kiss a tall man that approached without any worries about the uber-masculine crowd at the bar.

 

Minghao watched the new man quietly and tried not to get a kick out of the way Jun’s face fell. The man was tall and dressed like a slick businessman, with a suit that cost a goodly amount. The lines of it looked faintly familiar: nothing as comparatively cheap as Gucci or Prada or any of the normal suspects. It moved superbly on his body, precisely tailored… _ahh, bespoke._ “Is that a Westmancott suit?” he asked curiously.

 

The tall man finished kissing his bartender boyfriend before nodding quietly in Minghao’s direction. “You have good eyes,” he murmured. “I had it done earlier this year. I’ve not had time to fly to the Dormeuil atelier yet. You have a good eye, sir…?”

 

“Xu Minghao,” he introduced himself. “This is Wen Junhui.”

 

“Jeon Wonwoo,” the stranger said crisply. “I’m the manager here. A pleasure to have you in our city. Mingyu, do you have the final sign-up sheet for the race tonight?”

 

“Depends…” Mingyu said happily. “Last chance, gentlemen?”

 

Jun shook his head. “Not for either of us,” he said. “We’ll just be riding as spectators if anything.”

 

Mingyu laughed. “You got it! Babe, it’s this way…”

 

Minghao watched them walk away; they matched eerily well in that biker-banker way. “It’s the right bar,” he said very quietly to Jun, dipping into Cantonese this time. “I’ll send the word back home.”

 

“How do you know?” Jun asked curiously, shuffling closer to put his chin on Minghao’s shoulder. “And what was that about the suit?”

 

Minghao let him lounge for a second before shrugging him away. “The suit,” he admitted. “Westmancott is a gentleman’s tailor. He flies out to meet his clients, but only if they can meet his very steep price tags. That one he has on? It likely cost about twice as much as your Aprilia, bought off the factory floor. There’s no way the manager of an average club could afford that, even at Itaewon paychecks. If you had spent less time looking at the bartender’s ass…”

 

Jun snorted and finished off Minghao’s old-fashioned. “It was a nice ass. Besides, that’s not the only place I stared. No _jopok_ identification marks, just vanity tattoos on his arms. High quality work. Come on. There can’t be more than five Yamahas out there, and I only saw one YZF R1. Think you can keep watch whilst I tag it?”

 

Minghao rolled his eyes. “Maybe,” he snarked, getting up off the stool. “If you’re not as clumsy as you usually are.”

 

“Oya,” Jun drawled out. “You’ll pay for that later on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hansol stared at the equations on the piece of paper and tried to concentrate, but he was still lit from earlier and then that damn yellow scooter and now Boo Seungkwan was sitting across from him, patiently explaining problems that any engineering first-year student should already have been able to do. He’s not even an engineer. Like, Hansol was sure Boo Seungkwan only looked at parts when someone forced one before his nose, but here he was talking about vectors and planes and surfaces like he wasn’t an Art Department major.

 

“I don’t understand these,” he said softly, voice low and rough. “I dunno why we have to study these.”

 

Boo Seungkwan gave him a pouty, irritated look, but his tone of voice never varied. “Even if you’re not interested in it, you have to know how to do it so that you can get to the interesting stuff next year,” he pointed out. “I don’t really want to do the course either.”

 

Hansol’s fuzzy memory surged like a whale doing a depth roll, trying valiantly to catch up with the conversation. “Why are you doing this if you don’t like it? I mean, you’re a drama kid, right?”

 

“Science minor,” Boo Seungkwan said tightly, with every evidence that he didn’t want to talk about it. “I don’t understand why you don’t get it. You work with motorbikes, right? You fix them?”

 

Hansol struggled to keep up, shocked that fluttery Boo Seungkwan was doing a science minor. Parental pressure, perhaps. He wouldn’t know what that was. His mother, bless her soul, would have been happy if he did whatever his heart desired and his father had backed off after Seungcheol- _hyung_ had made a deal with him regarding Hansol’s studies and love of mechanics. “That’s right,” he said slowly. “I, uh, sorry, I’m struggling to keep up. The joint I had earlier was way too strong.”

 

Boo Seungkwan’s face turned into a thundercloud. “You’re high?” he asked fussily. “No wonder you can’t do this then. You need your brain, dummy, you can’t smoke it away. I can’t teach whilst you’re high.”

 

Watching as Boo Seungkwan scraped all his things together, zipping them up into a neat little bag and reaching for that ridiculous flower helmet, Hansol felt a tiny pang. He was on the verge of dropping out, and Boo Seungkwan was the friendliest tutor he had ever had; he didn’t want to lose him. Bereft of what to say, he watched him check that everything was there before he stood, and Hansol had no choice but to lope along with him towards the staff entrance. It was only as they reached the lean-to, having to walk around the boss’ Harley that Seungkwan spoke again.

 

“I think it’s best that you get another…” he started off, clearly sulky and insulted from the way he was pouting, but he broke it off to stare at Hansol’s baby, and his mouth snapped shut. Dumping his things on his yellow scooter, he hauled out his phone and snapped on the flashlight, shining it on the curve of the fuel tank. In the low light, it was difficult to see, but his phone’s light picked out the nuances in the design.

 

Hansol stared. He didn’t like people touching his baby. She was sacrosanct, but there was something in the way Boo Seungkwan traced along the intricate lines of the design that didn’t bother him. It occurred to him to wonder how many times in the day his mind said ‘Boo Seungkwan’ to him. He hadn’t noticed before. _Jesus_ , he was lit.

 

“It doesn’t feel like paint,” Boo Seungkwan said, brows knitting together. “This is… this is a sticker, right? But it looks like a custom design?”

 

Hansol managed a slow nod. “I drew it,” he muttered. “And then Mingyu- _hyung_ helped me put it on the computer and we printed it out on car vinyl to wrap it.”

 

Boo Seungkwan fell back a little and switched his phone off. “How did you know where to put the lines to make them appear straight on the bike? Did you use a template?”

 

Hansol shrugged, then realised it might not be light enough to see. “No? I just knew. I could do a design for your scooter as well, it wouldn’t need a lot. Perhaps two metres if we cut carefully?”

 

Boo Seungkwan was a suggestion in the faint light as he turned to point towards the boss’ Harley. “How about that one?”

 

“Four metres at least, but I wouldn’t wrap a Harley,” Hansol muttered, sticking his hands into his pockets. “At least not the fuel tank, they’re tricky. I just did it on my ‘busa because I wanted to see if I could. I’d paint it instead. You’d need at least six litres for a base on that.”

 

“And that?” Boo Seungkwan pointed out the corner of the customer stand they could just-just see, towards a beautiful old Bonneville.

 

Hansol considered the curves of the bike. “Five for a base, I think. I’ve not had a Bonneville to work on before.”

 

Boo Seungkwan fell silent. “If you can do that,” he finally said at length. “If you can work it out in your head like that even when lit, then you can do what we were trying to do in that office. Your problem isn’t that you can’t do it, you just don’t have the math to back you up.” In the darkness his voice sounded defeated almost, and his motions were slow as he picked up his things to stow them away in the scooter’s tiny compartment.

 

“Please don’t leave,” someone said.

 

Seconds later, when Hansol realised it had been him, the shock cleared his head a little. “I mean, as my tutor. I’ll try not to smoke before our sessions anymore. We can meet elsewhere too, at the shop again if you want? It doesn’t have to be here. I’m just here to check that all the bikes are street-legal for tonight’s race, and I know it’s very impolite inviting you into this area…” Words spilled from him, unusually loosened, before he snapped his mouth shut. “I’m sorry.”

 

Silence fell between them.

 

“I was curious,” Boo Seungkwan said. “This place had a good review even though it’s in such a place, and it said I would be safe. What race? What do you mean, street-legal?”

 

Hansol opened his mouth to answer, but paused when he saw Seungcheol wave at him around the corner, a set of keys in his hand. “Come on,” he said, and reached to grab Boo Seungkwan’s hand, tugging him along. “Come on, and I’ll teach _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Jun is a bit of a thot in this story, apologies. 
>   * The exciting world of bespoke suits. Anyway, a Westmancott suit is an investment just like a bike. Savile Row is the place to go, but Westmancott literally flies out to you. These are generally much more expensive than Italian houses like Prada, Gucci, etc. 
>   * I know nothing of bike customisation, so the numbers below when Hansol enthuses are likely wrong. 
> 



	8. Chapter 8

Chan grumbled as he made his way to the club at Seokmin’s side. His brother had sat through his school homework with him – loving sunshine Seokmin did not exist in the presence of homework – and it had been Biology and Hanja, which he _hated_. His handwriting sucked, and it was only his luck that had his school being one of the ‘new’ ones, once again taking up mandatory Hanja classes. He had sulked through their drive through the streets. Now, parking his Lightning in the Lee Brother section next to the Panigale and Streetfighter R, he felt tension leave his shoulders.

 

It lasted for all of five sections as he tried to comb the helmet hair into something approaching smooth. It refused to work with him, and he grimaced as he made his way around the edge of the shed towards the main bike stand, nearly run over by the guy Hansol was tugging along.

 

“Chan-ah,” Hansol said, voice that peculiar blur of zoned out and lit. “This is Boo Seungkwan.”

 

There was something to the way he said the syllables of the name, a particular cadence, that made Chan blink. “Hey,” he muttered. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lee Chan.”

 

The guy smiled at him, excellent cheekbones catching the light. “Pleased to meet you. Boo Seungkwan, first year scholarship student, Art and Science!”

 

Chan inwardly shuddered. He didn’t want to think about how clever the guy had to be to be a scholarship student. “High school still,” he muttered. “Currently studying for the CSATs.”

 

“Seungkwan- _hyung_  is my tutor,” Hansol muttered. “I’m showing him the bikes here. You ok with me showing him the Lightning?” His attention moved to Seungkwan. “Chan-ah’s part of the e-crowd. Electric bikes are really pushing forward with regards to speed and output, but they’re totally different because you don’t have the normal combustion engines, of course.”

 

Chan nodded and handed his keys over as Hansol started explaining in painstaking detail; Chwe Hansol might be higher than an atmospheric balloon at times, but he’d never so much as breathe wrong around bikes. “She’s fully charged, so if he’s got a helmet you can show him,” he muttered, and disappeared into the club. Tonight… tonight he really wanted to see if he could con Mingyu into giving him a drink.

 

It was still early enough that the club wasn’t that full, but most of them were gathered around a long set of pool tables towards the east side of the large room, likely checking out tonight’s course. Ignoring them, he wandered up to the bar and prepared to haul out his charm, only to deflate as his eldest brother came by.

 

“Good evening, _hyung_ ,” he chorused.

 

“Chan-ah,” Lee Jihoon said, reaching beneath the bar into one of the vast fridges hidden there. “You worked hard with your studies tonight?”

 

Chan bit the inside of his cheek. “Yes,” he muttered sullenly. “Or Seokmin- _hyung_ wouldn’t have let me go. Seriously. He’s like a hawk. You gotta tell him to lay off.”

 

A can of Coke materialised on the bar top, then a bottle of cider. “He’ll lay off when you pass the CSATs. We want you to get the chance we never did.”

 

It was an old story, old enough that just thinking about it made Chan feel tired. Their parents had died when Jihoon- _hyung_ had been fifteen, and somehow he and Seungcheol- _hyung_ had managed not only to care for them, but care well enough that they didn’t have to go on the street. As thankful as he felt, he also just felt ashamed and a whole host of other knotty emotions. Instead, he focused his eyes on the drinks. “I don’t drink cider,” he muttered. “Especially not the straight apple juice variety.”

 

“It’s not for you,” Jihoon said as he pulled out a coaster. “It’s for her. Do me a favour and carry it over.” One short finger wiggled towards the side.

 

Chan turned, stared and nearly choked on his saliva. Fine, so the bar wasn’t sexist, anyone could come, but it was the first time he had seen a girl nearly his age in it. She was curled into the corner of one of the booths away from the racing madness, and her phone cast febrile light on her face. Even though he couldn’t really see her face, she looked delicate enough not to be taller than him.

 

“Chan-ah?”

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

 

He wandered away from the bar, drinks in hand. The closer he got the more curious he got. She wasn’t really dressed like a girl going out; instead, she had leggings and someone’s oversized sweater on, with no jewelry and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The phone in her hands was expensive though, as was the sweatshirt she had on that slouched around her – whoever she had taken it from must have ginormous shoulders. “Hey,” he muttered, placing the coaster down before he plunked the bottle on top of it. “Your cider.”

 

She looked up at him with large eyes, and it struck him that she looked as tired as he did; it showed in the faint blue circles underneath her eyes and the way she slumped. Pretty, but not ravishingly beautiful. “Thank you?” she got out. As she put the phone down, the screen still briefly showed what looked like League statistics, then went dark. “I didn’t really order it though, who gave it to you?”

 

Chan couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to a girl. Class? Some project, likely. “It’s from my brother,” he hastened to reassure her, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the bar and his _hyung_. “Jihoon- _hyung_ wouldn’t drug it. I watched him open the bottle. Um…”

 

The girl managed to summon up a smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

 

Flailing around for a topic, because this was getting uncomfortable, Chan nodded down towards her phone. “Do you play?” he asked. “League, that is.”

 

“No, but some of the guys I know do? I was just checking their records. I’m more of a CS:GO fan myself, or Overwatch.” Her lips twitched on that last. “Do you play?”

 

Chan swallowed. “Neat. I don’t really get much time to play, so… uh yeah…”

 

Everyone was saved when Wonwoo popped up at his side like a particularly tall genie. “Chan-ah,” he said in his soft, restful voice. “Glad to see you made it in. I’ve got those papers ready if you felt up to taking a look tonight?” He stayed restful as he smiled at the girl. “Everyone still treating you alright, miss?”

 

She nodded quietly. “Yes, thank you? Um, will Choi Seungcheol-ssi be available tonight still?”

 

Chan looked to and fro between them, trying to shake the feeling that something was going on. Why a girl would be asking after his _hyung_ he couldn’t fathom – there was no way he would look at a girl this young as a girlfriend, and she didn’t look like one of his rabid groupies...

 

“Just a little longer,” Wonwoo assured her. “Feel free to order whatever you want from the kitchens if you want, since you’re not entering the race.”

 

“You like to ride?” Chan asked dumbly, and wanted to combust seconds later when what he said intersected with Wonwoo’s highly amused sideways glance. “I mean, you have a motorbike here?”

 

The girl nodded quietly, fingers plaiting around her cider. “I have a ‘busa here,” she explained. “But I don’t do races, and I’m not really here for that… um…”

 

“’00 ‘busa, one of the last ones made without the limiter,” Wonwoo informed Chan. “And significant aftermarket work. Or so I’m told at least, Hansol-ah was going on about it earlier. Personally I can’t understand the draw of going that fast.”

 

Chan tried not to die in successive bursts. A girl his age, that wasn’t perving all over his _hyungdeul_ , that liked bikes, liked _fast_ bikes _and_ understood the joy of CS:GO? “I’ve got a Lightning,” he blurted out, just as a litmus test. “An LS-219.”

 

He was pretty sure the heavens started crying – and not in the form of rain – when her eyes opened a little wider and he saw her smile for the first time. “Electric, really? I hear they’re so silent! And its top speed is pretty ridiculous too, what kind of torque are you getting? Do you find it corners easier? My ‘busa is so fricking unwieldy, do you have the opposite problem with the Lightning?”

 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Wonwoo said indulgently. “Time enough later for those documents, Chan-ah, if you wouldn’t mind keeping our guest company whilst she waits for Seungcheol- _hyung_?”

 

Chan slipped into the booth without a second thought, studies already forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Seokmin didn’t wait to walk Chan into the club when they arrived. He felt angry and tired; wrangling his younger brother was like trying to teaching a bird to walk – doable, but it left everyone in a cranky mood. The muggy heat outside clung to him unpleasantly despite the rain, and he made another note to have Mingyu look at the back tyre on his Streetfighter, it had felt a little wonky going around the last few turns. He had just about made it to the bar when something impacted into him with all the force of a well-aimed brick; whoever it was bounced off his back with a curse.

 

Irritated, he turned to rip a strip off the guy as he checked whether his wallet and things were still there. Instead, all he got was a hurried apology as two very pretty guys stumbled past, one supporting the other; seconds later, when he nearly stepped on a slim black phone he cursed his luck. Grumbling, he leant to pick it up and looked around to find them, but they had disappeared into the churn around the racing entry tables. He made for the bar instead, nodding to his brother at the other end before he slumped over the polished bar in front of Mingyu, not bothering to loosen his jacket.

 

“Tough night?” the bartender asked, pausing to put a coaster down next to his nose before he reached to pat Seokmin’s bared nape. “The usual? Sit up before you ruin the finish with your wet forehead.”

 

“Please,” Seokmin muttered. “And put this in the lost and found.” He slid the sleek black phone over to Mingyu and sat up to wipe at his face with his hands. “I was never this bad. I was too afraid of Jihoon- _hyung_. It’s not like he’s not intelligent? If anything the problem is that he’s too intelligent. I hate being the stupid one in the family, Mingyu-ah.”

 

Mingyu flicked his forehead with strong fingers before he poured an easy rum-and-coke, heavy on the Coke and light on the rum. “Don’t say that, _hyung_ ,” he scolded. “You’re not stupid by a long shot. Wonwoo- _hyung_ ’s got some stuff for him to do tonight, so let your hair down. It’s a pity it’s race night, or you and Soonyoung- _hyung_ could have gone to noraebang.” He paused. “Are they still on the outs?”

 

Seokmin’s smile threatened to break through as he thought of his elder brother and The Boyfriend. “I’ll give it another week or so. Soonyoung- _hyung_ ’s got him at the stage where he grunts at his morning texts at least. _Hyung_ ’s secretly weak for him anyway.”

 

Sobering a little, he straightened and looked around the club. There wasn’t an inch of it he didn’t know. He had first seen it when his father had opened it; Lee senior had had a thing for motorbikes and the fifties and James Dean, a passion his wife had allowed him. Hell, pride of place in the bar was still a copy of the very same Triumph Trophy James Dean had ridden. He could still hear the echoes of the man in this place. If it hadn’t been for their deaths six years back, and Seungcheol’s dad helping them pull through before he too died last year, they would have lost everything.

 

As it was, they had had to sell the bar to Seungcheol anyway, albeit for a thousand won. He had promised to sell it back to them when whoever wanted it struck twenty-five.

 

He scooped up the drink when Mingyu put it down, glanced over at the planning tables and nearly fell off his seat when one of the two very pretty boys from earlier popped up in front of him. In the dimly-lit ambiance of the club he almost disappeared except for his head, thanks to head-to-toe black of some expensive brand -- not that Seokmin knew what it was.

 

“Hey,” the guy said, holding up one hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, man.” His voice was softer than Seokmin had thought it would be, a softness that was belied by the keenly focused look in his eyes. “I’m Hong Jisoo. Sorry about earlier as well. Hannie’s just gotten the news that he can in fact enter, so he wanted to rush. Did I perhaps…”

 

Seokmin took a sip to still his heart. “Black phone?” he hazarded. “It’s in lost-and-found.” He jerked a thumb across the bar to Mingyu, and would have turned away if the guy didn’t stand there staring at him. “I didn’t try to open it,” he said fussily. “I don’t know if it’s damaged, man.”

 

The man’s forehead creased into a little frown, but instead of taking Seokmin to task for his rudeness, he tilted his head. “May I know who I’m speaking to?” he asked, voice barely audible above the music.

 

“Lee Seokmin,” Seokmin muttered after another sip.

 

The man – Hong Jisoo-ssi – nodded and turned to the bar, where Mingyu already had an array of phones out. He picked the correct one, unlocked it with a long password and showed them the open phone, then looked up at Mingyu. “Could you maybe put another drink for Lee Seokmin-ssi on my tab? Thank you to the both of you, this phone is my life in more ways than one.” He hesitated, threw Seokmin one last look and wandered away, infinitely more graceful than last time.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Mingyu hissed from behind him. “He was checking you out, dude.”

 

Seokmin nearly choked on his drink a second time. “No thanks,” he said as coolly as he could. “Between the relentless k-drama that is my brother’s love life and your disgustingly happy unity with Wonwoo- _hyung_ , I’m not in the mood for romance. Or a one-night stand. You’ve got to get off this matchmaking fetish of yours. Or practice on Hansol-ah, if you can get him to come down out of the clouds.”

 

Mingyu poked him in the back until he turned to face him. “Hansol brought a boy home,” he said proudly. “Well, a tutor, but I saw the way he looked at him. He drives on a scooter and his name is Seungkwan and he’s from Jeju-do and he’s cute as a piece of squishy angel cake. Come on. I can set you up with someone nice, I promise. One of Wonwoo’s friends perhaps? Or even a girl? I mean, I must know some girls… right?”

 

Seokmin felt like banging his head on the bar. Puppy Mingyu was more difficult to deal with than tall badass Mingyu. “You literally have a fan club at university? And no. No, thank you,” he said as evenly as he could. “Go and plague your boyfriend or my brother.”

 

“Mingyu-ya, help me with this order, please,” came his _hyung_ ’s voice from the other side of the bar.

 

Seokmin nearly sagged with relief as the too-tall puppy in front of him trotted away. Tipping his head back, he emptied his glass and made his way to the employee part of the club, choosing to invade Wonwoo’s office. Shoving Seungcheol’s stuff aside, he crawled onto the couch, prayed desperately that no one had had sex on it for a while, and set his head down to sleep. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, the nightmares wouldn’t come tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * In case it's not clear, Lee Jihoon, Lee Seokmin and Lee Chan are blood brothers in this story.
> 



	9. Chapter 9

Fresh from leaving Hansol to check the bike, Seungcheol walked back into the building, feeling the rain-damp of Wonwoo’s Prada shirt chill between his shoulder blades. He had no wish to speak to Bonneville and his boyfriend again, no matter how attractive both were; instead, circling a little, he wandered to the other side of the club and the booth with the two youngsters in it. He saw Chan talk happily, arms in movement, and caught fragments of their conversation before it fell silent at his arrival.

 

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Seungcheol murmured, dipping his head. “Chan-ah, this is business.” There was an unspoken invitation there: he could stay and listen and learn or scoot, but either would have consequences.

 

Chan looked from his serious expression to the girl, the way her hands dropped to her lap and her shoulders hunched under the huge sweatshirt. “I’ll stay, _hyung_ , if that’s alright with you.” Scooting sideways, he made space for Seungcheol at his side, taking the position his brother often had but didn’t really want.

 

Seungcheol nodded once before sliding in himself, back straight against the back of the booth. “You wanted to speak to me?” he asked the girl who fiddled with her sleeves. “This is a great risk, you understand.”

 

The girl took a deep breath. “I understand, but it was the only way I had to warn you. In the business we did before, um…”

 

As she trailed off, Chan cocked his head. “Business?” he mumbled to Seungcheol.

 

Seungcheol nodded. “This is Overwatch,” he explained. “She took care of a problem we had a few months ago, that matter with our previous bartender.”

 

Chan’s eyes widened and he turned to stare at the unprepossessing girl on the other side of the booth. “You’re the hacker?” he asked, disbelieving.

 

The girl’s shoulders rounded a little more. “I’m Kim Haneul,” she chose to say. “Overwatch is just … sort of...” Breaking off, she bit her lip and lifted the laptop at her side onto the table. “There’s going to be a fire at the club tonight,” she said. “Whilst everyone’s away at the race. As an example. Um, a problem with one of the industrial gas lines, I think.”

 

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. There were so many employees involved at the race that the club was on skeleton staff, and there was enough alcohol on the premises that if a stove burst into fire, the place’d blow sky-high. He weighed his options: cancel the race, protect the building, or try and do both? “Chan,” he said without turning his head. “Go to the kitchen. Warn the cook, get everything shut down just in case. Go.”

 

Chan scrambled over him, accelerating to flat speed as he made for the kitchens, and Seungcheol turned his gaze on the girl sitting across from him. “I was under the impression that we paid your fee and that was to be that. Why are you here, now? Warning us?”

 

Overwatch – Kim Haneul – lifted her chin whilst her fingers locked into the too-long sleeves of the sweater she had on, crumpling the fabric between her fingertips. “You reminded me of my brother,” she said softly. “He took a chance on me, a virtual stranger, and brought me into the family. You did the same with Jeon Wonwoo- _ssi_ and Kim Mingyu- _ssi_. It’s… there must be some kind of honour amongst thieves, right?” she asked, flicking a quick glance at him. “You’ve worked so hard the past few months and I…” She broke off, inhaled and gave a huge sigh. “You were nice to the people at the clubs here. I was born in this district myself, not really wanted, but they helped me and now you’re helping them.”

 

Seungcheol blinked, obscurely touched. “Thank you,” he said softly.  “Why not just by e-mail?”

 

“Your WiFi here is compromised. Please get someone to rebuild it with proper security.” She stopped chewing on her bottom lip and inhaled again. “And… and my brother sends his regards as well,” she said as her hands relaxed a bit and her gaze found his. “He _sees_ you, Choi Seungcheol- _ssi_ , and because he had to start a business anew as well, he respects what you are doing. That is not something I could say via electronics.”

 

Seungcheol inhaled through his teeth. “Thank you,” he said softly, dipping his head. “Please tell your brother that I…”

 

“ _Hyung_!” Chan called as he arrived, out of breath and panting. “ _Hyung_ , come and look!”

 

In the chaos of Seungcheol cursing and standing, as well as Chan frantically explaining, Haneul gathered her things and quietly departed, melting back into the shadows she was the most comfortable in.

 

* * *

 

Jisoo watched as Kim Seokjin’s adopted little sister made her way out of the club, eyes narrowing slightly. She was not a face he had expected to see here; Overwatch was a spider at best, loathe to interact from what he had heard. If it hadn’t been for one hit on her he had almost taken, he wouldn’t have known what she looked like even. It piqued his interest enough to transfer his gaze to the scene she walked away from. Choi Seungcheol looked tired and hag-ridden, no surprise given he was trying to pick the area up by sheer willpower alone

 

It was the kid that came running up to him that made a rill of something run down his spine. Young but pretty, something he said caused the owner’s expression to morph to something polite, something _placeholder,_ and his instincts whispered to him that something was very wrong. The way they both disappeared afterward was more suspicious, and he straightened, tugging Hannie away from his boasting session with another biker.

 

“Let’s get to the course quickly,” he murmured, tucking the _chaebol_ heir in against his side even as he checked that he had everything. “I heard that Kwon Soonyoung might be showing up there at the beginning, even if he won’t be riding. You saw him the other day at that benefit, right? I’d like to meet him before the mass of people chases him away.

 

Jeonghan tossed him a look, drained the last of his beer and swiped his registration card off the table, hooking it indolently onto the keys that Jisoo passed him. “Good idea.”

 

Outside, murmuring apologies to all the people trying to get into the bar, he inched the two of them around to the bike stand. The only light was the dim glow from the street as well as a coal from a cigarette someone had dropped, and even that sizzled out underneath Jeonghan’s foot. It had begun to rain again, making the dark even more sullen, and he barely kept from whipping a knife out as a guy with a flower helmet came around the corner, determinately stomping away from a guy in a sleeveless shirt.

 

“Sorry,” he apologised with a sweet smile and a mumble, camouflaging the reach into his jacket for a knife for a scramble for his keys.

 

The boy bowed, honest-to-god _bowed_ to him, large round eyes flicking between himself at Jeonghan. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he murmured, words nearly hidden as a curse came from the area behind the shop. Biting his lip, he scooted past them to leave.

 

Jeonghan frowned. “Was that dessert boy?” he asked, tilting his head.

 

The guy with the sleeveless shirt blinked and stepped further back into the bike storage area. “Hyung?” he called out. “Hyung, is something wrong?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jisoo said softly, edging Jeonghan a little deeper into the shadows and not a moment too early; across the street came a loud scream of “Get the pretty one!” and the squeal of tyres, accompanied by what sounded like a gunshot. Diving flat, Jeonghan covered under himself, he glared over his shoulder. “Get down!” he roared at the poor boy in the flower helmet. “Get down, they’re shooting!”

 

 _‘Why are they shooting?’_ his mind havered. _‘Are they here for Hannie or the guy that owns the bar?’_

 

Another scream, this time from the guy in the flower helmet. With a second squeal of tyres, a black car screeched by and a guy yanked him into its depths by the too-large sweater he wore. The last Jisoo saw of him was flailing arms and legs, and eyes rounded with shock.

 

“They’re kidnapping him, do something!” Jeonghan shrilled, trying to push up as Jisoo bore down on him.

 

“Seungkwan!” the guy in the sleeveless shirt roared. Faster than Jisoo could see, he turned to hop on a Lightning, sheeting plastic flapping through the air like a piece of washing, and he was gone too, accelerating so fast all Jisoo could smell was tyres burning.

 

“Shit,” he groaned, right as Muscled Hotness and the cute kid came running around the corner.

 

The owner – Seungcheol something? – frowned and reached to pull them up, Prada shirt skin-wet from whatever they had been doing behind the bike area. “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

Jeonghan shivered, tried to get smears of mud and water off him. “I think someone tried to kidnap me,” he said shakily. “And then the guy with the sleeveless shirt hopped on a bike and went…”

 

“My Lightning!” the pretty kid interrupted with a screech. “He took my fucking Lightning! He’s a ‘busa man, he doesn’t know how to handle that!”

 

Choi Seungcheol reached up and facepalmed, clearly trying not to cry. “Everyone inside,” he ordered stiffly. “Just... get inside until the police gets here.”

 

* * *

 

Jihoon took one look at the thunderous expression on Seungcheol’s face when he came in and knew something had gone very wrong, gunshot earlier or not. “What is it?” he asked tightly as he placed his hand on Chan’s nape; his youngest brother was practically crying with rage. “What happened?”

 

Seungcheol looked over his head for a second, beckoning Wonwoo closer. “Get the people out of here and to the track,” he ordered him. “Make up an excuse.” One nod from Wonwoo later, he looked back. “Someone planted an explosive on the main gas line,” he said shortly but very quietly. “And there was a drive-by shooting and Seungkwan-ah got kidnapped. Hansol, apparently trying to be a _hero_ , grabbed Channie’s Lightning and set off in hot pursuit.”

 

Jihoon didn’t know what expression his face was making, but he felt poleaxed. “He what?” he got out tightly. “What the fuck is this, Gangnam COPS? In this weather? And an explosive?”

 

Seungcheol shook his head. “I don’t have time to explain that part. The police are going to come here, but I’m more worried about the entirely innocent bystander.” He bit his lip savagely. “There’s not way the police is going to catch up with them.”

 

Seokmin cleared his throat. “We can track the Lightning at least. As long as Hansol stays close enough…”

 

Chan looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head. “You… you lo-jacked my bike?” he snarled. “Hyung, what the fuck?”

 

“Not NOW, Chan, oh my god, we can argue about this later, okay?” Seokmin rebutted. “And it was for your own safety anyway.”

 

Jihoon, mind floating from worry, blinked as a solution popped up in his mind. “Wait, go back,” he ordered his middle brother. “You have tracking on his bike? Which way are they heading?” One hand slipped into his pocket and he hauled out his phone, wiggling his hand to Seokmin. “Gimme the tag when I ask.”

 

Stepping aside, he pressed into the back corner of the bar to get away from the noise as Wonwoo urged everyone outside with a complimentary bottle of whiskey. He knew the phone number by heart, but they had argued yet again, would he even…

 

The phone clicked as the call got answered. “Jihoonie…?” Soonyoung murmured, sounding surprised. “Uh… we’re doing phone calls now?”

 

“I don’t have time,” Jihoon said flatly. “Please just listen, Soonyoung.” He tucked his phone into his neck and took Seokmin’s phone, already open at the tracking app. “There’s a guy that was kidnapped, and one of my idiots is racing after them on a Lightning, but he has zero fucking clues as to what he’s doing on that bike, and we don’t have anything fast enough to chase him down with.” He paused. “They’re heading roughly in your direction.”

 

There was a moment’s silence before the jingling of keys could be heard over the phone. “You’ll have to navigate me,” Soonyoung muttered, unwontedly serious. “Give me five minutes to get my track uniform on and the bike warmed up.”

 

The call went on hold before Jihoon could give his thanks, but he still felt the worry along his shoulders dissipate. He looked up to find the others clustering close. “He’ll do it,” he said. “He’s on that side of the city, so he might actually catch up with them.”

 

“You got the Tiger to help us?” Chan asked, awestruck. 

 

Jihoon nodded, jaw gritting as the others stared at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Hey guys, it's a long time since I posted this, I hope you're still reading! 
>   * We finally get to the actual action start. 
> 



	10. Chapter 10

Kwon Soonyoung had often been asked what it’s like to be astride a bike going upwards of two hundred kilometres an hour. His answer differed based on his audience: for groupies on the race track he had a patented wink that made them giggle. His team manager heard how much he had to concentrate, that he couldn’t allow anything to break that. Jihoonie… well, Jihoonie would never have asked him such a fucking stupid question, because he knew it was like flying.

 

The Marchesini tyres sang over the asphalt of the highway. There had been cops back there somewhere, but he had blown past them at a hair over 240 without paying attention. It wasn’t a speed he could maintain forever; there was simply not enough road unless he wanted to get on the ring-road. He had gotten off that over five minutes ago, taking the 66 down into Dongsomum-ro. The kidnappers were up past Myeong-dong already, so he had until Nakwon-dong at the latest; it was late enough that the roads were empty enough.

 

He wasn’t a rally rider, he didn’t drift; he had cut his teeth on race tracks and street races in his youth, and…

 

Minutes fell as gently around him as snow, and as slippery; he’d never get the bits back where he had to throttle down, and driving on his racing bike in the streets was so far on the other side of the law that he’d likely never hear the end of it. Still, he thought of the underground scene that he had only passing familiarity with, thought of the kid in the hands of a kkangpae, and his right thumb started sneaking towards the toggle that disabled the governor on his bike. He was almost there, but if he had to catch a Lightning that had the high-speed changes made, he’d need that boost. He was half-amazed the car was still in front of it.

 

“Location,” he muttered into his helmet mike, ignoring the HUD display on it that his sat-nav tried to calculate. Sat-nav didn’t work at this speed, it simply pinged too slowly.

 

“You’re never going to catch them at Nakwon-dong,” Jihoon said calmly. “Get on Samil-daero north-bound as soon as you can and stop playing around.”

 

In the background Soonyoung heard the other two Lee brothers; Chan was still raging about something and Seokmin was very loudly humming which he only did when he was angry as well but Jihoonie… well, Jihoonie knew how to get his blood pumping alright. “Ask Chan what the battery charge on his Lightning was.”

 

“It was full, he had charged it right before leaving for the bar.”

 

“Shit.”

 

Silence fell. “If I get a ticket…” he teased.

 

“You won’t if you _stop fucking around._ ”

 

“Roger that, yes sir. Turning at Samil-daero now, thank god there’s a bike lane. Talk later.”

 

The line quieted, but stayed open. Lee Jihoon was there in the back of his mind, waiting quietly.

 

 _Holy fuck, Lee Jihoon trusted him to do this_.

 

He swung onto the three-lane main road and slipped into the bike lane. This time of the night it was virtually empty. His right thumb flicked. Deep in the electronic brain of his bike something clicked.

 

It didn’t feel like a kick in the pants. Instead, it felt as if he nearly lifted off the road as he smoothly crossed the boundary road at three hundred kilometres per hour, racing rebuild roaring high and powerful beneath him. Streets flashed in a blur; he had fractions of seconds to react. His bike would never…

 

Someone asked Kwon Soonyoung what going fast felt like.

 

It felt like your heart exploding, like your soul pinching down to a single purpose. It felt like stalling that second before you came deep in someone, and it never backed down, it never got less. Adrenaline junkies were junkies for a reason; he could feel the endorphins flooding his brain in the way that his attention sharpened. His lips curled back from his teeth in a fierce snarl.

 

Something sparked ahead; he only needed a tiny twitch to be past the lone girl on her bike. Beyond her, something pulled at his attention, nailed it down. A car and a bike, both going very fast, but…

 

“This kid on the bike,” he said as he slowed down. “Used to a heavier bike, is he?”

 

“Yeah, a ‘busa.”

 

Soonyoung’s mind worked; full up, a Hayabusa had vastly more wet weight than the frame-on-an-engine like the Lightning, especially if the Lightning had the carbon framework done. He didn’t need to speed up; actually, he needed to slow way down, he was gaining on them way too fast. He still didn’t know how he could have failed Maths the first time but knew intimately how to work this kind of equation.

 

He pulled alongside the kid as he throttled down, stayed apace with him. Ahead, in the car, it looked as if one guy was trying to beat the other senseless with some sort of helmet. It looked more like some kind of slapstick than ‘Fast and the Furious’. What made him boggle was that the kid on the Lightning didn’t have a helmet on, didn’t have a suit on; if he fell now he’d be chunky salsa, let alone a corpse.

 

Reaching up, he lifted his visor just a tad. “Pull over!” he roared at the kid – well, not a kid so much as a young man lean with muscle and hands dirty with grease and oil.

 

“What?” the kid yelled back, voice snatched by the wind.

 

“Pull over!” he tried again.

 

“His name is Hansol,” came over the in-ear.

 

“Fuck, he’s not hearing me,” he growled, and reached to flip his helmet up fully. The wind bit at him as he turned to glare at him, wanting to snatch him off, but he stuck at it. ‘Hansol’ was boggling at him, looking thoroughly shocked, but shook his head so hard he almost fell off the fucking bike.

 

“Jihoonie,” Soonyoung gritted out. “Ask Chan if he’ll mind if I take his bike instead. I’m more used to stripped-down builds and speed, this kid nearly wobbled out of control. I think he’ll do better on a traditional, even though my bike is as light.”

 

“Chan says he will buy you _chimaek_ if you take over and return his bike whole. He says the governor’s still the default unlock.”

 

Okay. _Oh-kay._

 

It was kids’ play to switch the governor on and get his bike close enough to the Lightning to be elbow-to-elbow with the guy. “Hey,” he called, bending his head over a little. “Hansol, yeah? Jihoon sent me. You’re tall, right? You look tall. I don’t have time to waste.”

 

For a moment Hansol’s eyes sharpened, and he bit off a curse as his jaw shut tightly. He nodded though, just once.

 

He coaxed him through a stunt he had last done when he tried rally-riding: crouching on his bike’s seat, he created enough space for Hansol to swing his leg over. Still holding it straight, he hopped over and settled on the Lightning’s seat, waiting for Hansol to get his left leg up and over. For a second it looked as if it all spun out of control, but then they were straight, bikes switched. “Go for it!” he yelled to the kid and saw his eyes flame as he sank down on in a proper riding position. He grinned madly, slammed his visor shut and gunned it.

 

Where his Kawasaki felt like sex, the Lightning felt like nothing. There was no huge roar, no moving parts in the engine, just a strange whine as the wheels sped up responsively. He tried to brake; the brakes were so responsive that he nearly flipped over. He heard faint laughter from his side, glared sideways and squeezed down, reaching to the flat instrument panel to key in the unlock sequence. “Be seeing you~” he cooed.

 

They had fallen behind in the switch-over and Soonyoung let the bike spin higher and higher. It took a fraction of a second to pull up next to the car – holy shit was that someone beating someone else’s brains out with a motor manual? – and he reached behind him into his racing suit.

 

The P228, the only remainder of his days on the not-entirely-legal gang racing scene, didn’t glitter. It sounded delicate on the window over the snarl of the Kawasaki pulling up next to him, and he gave his best ‘open up motherfucker’ motion with it. It turned into ‘pull over’, and the thug in the shotgun seat had the nerve to fire out the driver’s window. It almost bit against him, ricocheted off something and plinked a shooting star out of the asphalt. Another bullet, and a third as Hansol fell behind a little to get out of the trajectory.

 

He was not quite sure what he saw next; the cheesiest, cheeriest flower helmet he had ever seen in his life hit Shotgun-ssi so hard his head snapped around, and seconds later a shivering hand held a Glock .44 to the driver’s throat. There appeared to be a great deal of shouting going on, loud enough to sound above all the noise. Sensibly, likely scared he would get his brains blown out by an amateur, the driver slowed down, eventually idling to a stop. Soonyoung did as well, kicked the Lightning in a narrow circle and parked.

 

The back door snapped open and a boy stumbled out. He looked so delicate with his little beret and shivering frame that the Glock looked unnatural in his hand, despite the way that he was holding it. From the corner of his eye he barely noticed Hansol kicking his Kawasaki’s kick-stand down before he scrambled off as well. He watched the boy collapse against his chest, watched Hansol gingerly take the Glock from him, and felt his heart pinching again.

 

“Jihoonie,” he muttered into his mike. “They stopped. Can you send a truck to get us here? I want the bikes off the street as fast as possible.”

 

“Done. Already on our way.”

 

The sobbing tears from the kid collapsed against Hansol’s chest filled the street, and he wondered what he had gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

Jun watched as the tall bartender’s boyfriend began to shoo people out of the bar towards the track. It was very smoothly done, but they were definitely getting them out of the building. He nudged Minghao, who was still playing around with his second glass of wine. “Something’s happening,” he murmured softly, leaning in close to his partner’s ear. “The manager’s face is not saying much, but he’s a little wild around the eyes.”

 

Minghao’s head twisted a little, just enough to share space along the length of his jaw, so that puffs of breath tickled along the line of it. “Where?”

 

Jun’s eyes scanned the crowd over his shoulder and watched as another couple of men came stomping in, this time the one their intel said was the manager. “My eight.”

 

It was all he needed to say. Under the cover of conversation and a small, flirty grin, Minghao looked over his shoulder and found a tight knot of whispering strangers huddled around the small bartender on the other side of the bar. He blinked, trying to concentrate as Jun rested a hand on his arm, and sighed softly as they shifted just enough for him to read their lips. “Someone was kidnapped,” he said sotto voce. “Someone important? And there’s an explosive outside on one of the gas lines. They’re calling the police. The manager’s been tasked to eva…”

 

“I’m sorry!” the tall, bright bartender from earlier said, bouncing over to them. “But we’re urging everyone to get to the track so that the streets don’t congest on the way there!” He levelled a megawatt smile at them. “And you don’t want to miss the good seats at the finish line.”

 

Jun pulled away from Minghao to smile at the bartender, name appearing in his mind seconds later. “Ah, is it that time already?” he asked cutely, digging in his wallet for cash. “You’re right. Come on babe, we don’t want to be late. Thank you so much, Mingyu-ssi!” Reaching out, he slipped his hand into Minghao’s back pants pocket and ‘helped’ him off the chair, scooping up both their sets of keys. On the outside he projected casual-drunk hard. On the inside his mind spun.

 

Minghao tolerated his hand in his back pocket all the way to the outside and the dark bike overhang before he pulled away smoothly. It was so crowded with people it was easy for the two of them to slip further back into it past a rather nice Harley. “I’ll keep watch,” he murmured, knowing without asking where Jun's mind was headed.

 

It was the nice thing about having him as a partner, that wordless understanding. Jun smiled at him as he slipped deeper into the shadows, reaching into his pants to pull out his gloves. It was the work of moments to slip into the narrow alley behind the bar, and a little help from his cellphone brought him to the bomb. A soundless whistle left his teeth as he bent to examine it. On a mains gas line, it’d take out not only the building it fed into but a goodly chunk of the block. The engineering was crude, but there was enough explosives to guarantee a very loud boom.

 

_Some idiot trying to horn in on the competition? This is crude, no real criminal organisation would use something this obvious… regardless, I can’t leave it like this._

Jun wedged his phone into a crack and knelt down next to the bomb. It was the work of less than a minute to defuse the crude but potent explosive; he didn’t dare take it off in case the police got ornery, but the place had been nice, he didn’t want it to blow up either. Instead, he neatly pulled the detonation cap off and away, crushed the tiny little transceiver and dropped it in a puddle of water there before he ambled out again, slipping his phone and gloves back into his pocket.

 

“Got it,” he mentioned as he passed by Minghao, idling towards his bike. “Let’s go before the cops arrive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * For those curious of mind out there, a Hayabusa's wet weight (ie weight with a full tank of gas and everything) is about 266kg. A Lightning on a carbon frame is less than 220kg, I believe. That's a huge difference in handling especially at high speeds: you really do have to ride differently, and it's difficult to adapt on the fly. A ZX10RR like Soonyoung's is about 206kg wet weight, so he's way more used to it than Hansol. 
>   * I tried to be accurate with the route, but gave up after a while. 
>   * Most superbikes these days have a governor that does not allow them to go past a certain speed. It is possible, though very illegal and very dangerous, to disable it if you know what you are doing. 
>   * Another interesting factoid is that most commercial GPS chips ping too slowly to be of use when you're going at ridiculous speeds like Soonyoung, and you can forget about the cops being able to keep on his tail. 
>   * Always wear your biking gear. Don't be like Hansol. 
>   * I think we all know that if Lee Jihoon just twitches, Kwon Soonyoung will leap to the rescue, fight or not. 
>   * A small look at Jun and Minghao, who I bet has been forgotten. As a reminder, they're undercover Chinese investigators. 
> 



End file.
